How it Falls
by Judy Blue Eyes
Summary: The people of Boston have assessed the Saints according to the information that the media provides them, but when a journalist goes looking for information among the public, will she be able to reconcile her head and her heart? Rated for language ConnorOC
1. Prologue

A/N: Story roughly inspired by _The Beauty of the Rain_, by Dar Williams.

Find the lyrics on launch.

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Connor and Murphy MacManus sat next to each other at the bar in McGuinty's, cracking jokes and whistling at women in their usual bawdy way. What was a bar for if not this? To Murphy's right sat Terry O'Donough, a regular at McGuinty's and a good friend of the brothers'. "Whoowhee! She's a real firecracker!" he commented, staring after the waitress who had just blown him off. "Fucking gorgeous!" He looked at his companions. "What? No?"

The two brothers shook their heads as one. "She's too skinny," Murphy explained.

"You're crazy bastards, ya know that?"

"No," Connor corrected, laughingly, "We're Irish."

"And we're made ta like Irish women," Murphy continued.

"Who have a little more meat on their bones," his brother finished.

Terry laughed. "I'm Irish, too, but I ain't one for fatties."

"Yer, what, fifth? sixth generation?" Murphy taunted him. "That barely counts."

"An' we're not talking fatties, just… not bags of bones." Connor scanned the room. "Like… her. Over there." He pointed to woman sitting alone at a booth across the bar. "She's gorgeous."

"An' she's got Irish eyes."

"You're not going to tell me, Murphy, you can tell she's Irish from over here. That's absurd," Terry challenged.

"Oh, yes, I am. Those er Irish eyes, them. Though I wouldn't expect Mr. Fifth Generation to know that."

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Trista saw the three men at the bar and marked it as one of them pointed at her. Seeing her chance, she rose from her lonely booth and made her way over to where they sat. This was the very opportunity she'd been waiting for.

"Trista O'Fallon," she said by way of introduction. "I saw yeh watchin' me."

Murphy laughed and shoved Terry nearly off his stool. "Told yeh she was Irish."

"Well, it's not like it was a long shot. It is a predominantly Irish bar."

"Oooh, predominantly. Nice bar talk," the brothers taunted the American.


	2. The Break

A/N: This chapter is a flashback, just so you know. Whenever you see italicized paragraphs, they're flashbacks.

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_It was chilly inside the office building, and the fact that her cubical was right next to the drafty windows wasn't helping any. Trista thought she must have been the only office worker in history to hope for a promotion to an office _without_ a view. But she pulled her sweater tighter about her and plugged away at her research… on interstate road construction. It wasn't the most glamorous of articles, to be sure, but it was an article and, if done well, it would gain it's spot at the back of the paper. It was a start. Trista supposed she couldn't hope for much, having only been hired on as a writer six months ago, after her brief but memorable stint as an intern. She could not, for the life of her, make a decent cup of coffee, let alone deliver it without spilling it in someone's lap. Luckily, her boss, Mr. Turnbaum, had seen past that and granted her her current position. Thus, she continued onward._

_When will the work on I-93 _really_ be done? That was the question. _

_Then her thoughts, whether on task or not, were interrupted by James Turnbaum's boisterous voice drifting behind him to the senior writer he was putting on assignment. "This is a very important piece, Andrew, and I'm counting on you to get it right. Now you'll have to go undercover. You'll have to infiltrate their society, which is why I chose you."_

"_Sorry, sir?" Andrew struggled to keep up as Mr. Turnbaum stepped forward again apace after grabbing a file handed to him by one of the lower writers._

_Andrew stopped short, barely managing to keep from running into his superior as Turnbaum spun on his heal. "Red hair. Green Eyes. Freckles. If you're not Irish, I don't know who is."_

"_I'm not, sir."_

"_Like I said, I don't know who is, but I don't care all that much either. You look the part and I want you to play it. Now," but his voice trailed off out of Trista's hearing as he briskly continued down the hall._

_But for some reason, Trista just couldn't let this go. If her concentration hadn't been ruined before, it surely was now. So she gathered up a couple of files and stepped out into the hall under the pretext of going to the copy room._

_At the end of the hall, instead of turning to her right down the hallway leading to the copy room, she ducked her head inside a conference room and stood silently near the wall listening to the conversation in Turnbaum's office. She smiled inside as she thought maybe she'd like a promotion to one of the cubicles down here, as she could undoubtedly always hear what Turnbaum was saying, he spoke so loud. Then she sobered, concentrating once again on the task at hand: eavesdropping, or, as she preferred to see it, the collecting of valuable information in order to the more quickly further her career._

"_Language training…" Andrew was questioning hesitantly._

"_That's what I said."_

"_And, if you don't mind my asking sir, why, exactly, do I have to go through language training?"_

"_Well, are you proficient a the Irish accent?"_

"_No, sir."_

"_That would be why."_

"_But sir, I fail to understand why I have to use the accent."_

"_I am of the mind that if you go into an Irish neighborhood, it is not enough just to look Irish. That could be coincidence, as it is with you. But if you have an accent and you tell them you've just come over from the motherland…"_

"_The motherland?" Trista thought to herself, with a chuckle._

"… _they'll be more accepting. They'll have to trust you. You'll be a full blooded Irishman… or they'll think so at least. The accent is what puts you over the edge, give you an in, where other outsiders might not be able to get one. And that's exactly what you need to do."_

"_To get the story on the Saints."_

"_Yes, to get the story on the Saints. You get me names and information. I'll put a man or two on untangling the mysteries, putting the pieces together, maybe more if they're needed. I want this story. I want this scoop. This is information of the highest privilege and importance. I trust you'll keep it to yourself."_

"_Of course, sir."_

"_Now, I understand that this is a big commitment, and there's a huge sacrifice involved. Who knows how long you'll need to be undercover. But If you do this for me, I will make sure it's your name on the byline." Turnbaum took a long pause. "Do we have an agreement?"_

_Trista held her breath, silently wishing Andrew would decline, but not daring to hope it would actually happen._

"_I… have to think it over… talk to my wife."_

"_Alright. I respect that. You think it over and get back to me by Monday, but be careful what you say to your wife. Only the essentials."_

"_Yessir."_

_Trista jumped, her concentration broken, as the door to Turnbaum's office was hastily shoved open. She quickly gathered her thoughts and her courage and turned the corner, catching the door, just as it was about to slam shut. She turned quickly about to face Turnbaum where he sat rather ominously at his desk. _

"_Yes…?" He drew out the word, as a punishment for her intrusion. It worked._

"_I -- um -- sir, I was just…" Trista stopped herself and collected her nerves with a deep breath. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with Andrew, sir, on my way to the copy room…"_

"_So you were eavesdropping." He raised his eyebrows and let out a slow breath. "I respect that. I had no idea you were about."_

"_Well, sir, I heard what you want Andrew to do--"_

"_And you will keep it to yourself."_

"_Oh, most definitely, sir. Only…" Trista calmed herself again. "Only I was thinking that if Andrew didn't want the job or… or couldn't take it for some reason… maybe you'd consider me."_

"_And why would I do that Trista? A new employee six months on the job and used to writing articles about new sewer lines? Doesn't make much sense to me."_

"_Mr. Turnbaum, I may be new to this job, but I am one of the most talented people in here. And I may have only written articles on sewers and interstate construction for this paper, but that is per your own order. I assure you I can do much more. Besides, I'm Irish."_

"_I don't care about your heritage, Trista. I care about who can get the story."_

"_And I assure you I can. And," Trista put in before he could protest, "I can do the accent… extremely well…" Turnbaum did not respond. "I spent a year abroad in college… I picked it up then…" Trista said to fill the silence._

_After a long pause between the two of them, Turnbaum announced, "I'm waiting."_

"_Oh!" Trista finally understood and gave him her best rendition… or, rather, the first accent that came into her mind._

"_Harsh." Turnbaum commented. "I like it. Very authentic. I was hoping for a slight parody at best from Andrew. And you did manage to get the information about this without anyone's help or knowledge…" Trista decided it best not to inform him of his overly abundant use of decibels. "Alright, Trista," he decided. "I'm going to put you in. But only for two weeks. And if you don't have any leads by then, I'm switching you out for Andrew. That'll give him time to get the language training anyhow. Congratulations, Trista, you've just gotten your break.'_

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A/N: So? Do you like it so far? I know it's only the very beginning, but review please, and tell me what you think!


	3. Haunting

A/N: Now back to the present. A little note about Trista. Her accent is going to be a little different from the boys' and a lot more pronounced. As will become apparent, she's using an accent from County Waterford. Now, those accents are characterized by the inability to pronounce the sound signified in America by "th". Thus, the word thriller would be pronounced "triller", and the word therefore would be pronounced "derefore." For posterity's sake, I'm going to be spelling them phonetically. Just wanted to explain that. Now on to the chapter.

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The bar was empty and Trista was beginning to think she was going to have another fruitless night. Perhaps this bar wasn't really connected anyways. Perhaps another haunt would suit her needs better. It had been almost a week and, aside from the passing compliments of the drunken mobs and the happenstance conversation with the trio at the bar two nights back, Trista had nothing. She knew she had to get something soon or risk losing what may be her only break. She did _not_ want to end up like the forty-year-old obituary writer in cubicle 19. It didn't cross her mind then that she had roughly fifteen years before that happened; she was far too focused on the present.

Maybe a new haunt was exactly what she needed. The barkeep was becoming suspicious of her, she could tell. He was always popping over, asking questions, prying… even when she _wasn't_ the only person in the pub.

"How's that beer?"

Like now.

"Fine. Tanks."

"Can I get y'another?"

Trista lifted her beer slightly and tipped it, examining it in pretense. The barkeep didn't seem to get the hint, and if he did he didn't respond to it, just kept hovering. "Ehm… I've barely touched it yet."

"Yeh never know when yeh'll get real thirsty."

"Dat's alright. I tink I'm good."

And, reluctantly, he left to wipe down the bar for the fourth time since Trista had entered an hour earlier.

Only a few moments passed as the barkeep slid his cloth across the bar before he was at her again with questions.

"So, what are yeh in for?" he asked her from across the room.

"Sorry?"

"Well, I admit I 'aven't been doing this fer that long, but in the time I've been workin' 'ere, I've seen a lot of customers. I mean, a lot. There are the regulars, ya know, and the drunks, and those who come in after a fight with their girl. And then there are the people who just show up… and keep comin' back. They're the ones who sit alone in the corner. Like you."

"I'm not in a corner."

"Ah, but yeh know what I mean," and he approached her booth once again. "What's got ya down? What's turned ya ta the drink?"

She declined to answer.

"Come on. I'm a bartender. Half my job is listening to people's problems. The other half is givin' out drinks and more than half o' those around here are beers I just pop the tops off of. Bar psychology is the only way I get through the night. Ya gotta gimme somethin' 'ere, if not fer yer own sake, fer my sanity."

Trista smiled slightly. He was good at what he did. "I've not really turned ta da drink, now."

"Aye, that. Ya buy maybe two beers a night."

"I've just not got anywhere ta be."

"What d'ya mean?"

"I'm newly in from…" In her mind, Trista was thinking, the motherland, but she refrained from mocking Turnbaum just now. "…Ireland. I haven't got a followin' 'ere yet."

"Oh, a following!" Another customer entered the bar. "I like you. Yer saucy!"

Trista smiled involuntarily at the comment, as the barkeep sauntered over to the bar to attend to his exciting new customer. After a moment, Trista decided to move in. She grabbed her beer nonchalantly and approached the bar, taking a seat next to the man as the bartender handed him his scotch.

"Yer the saucy one, eh?"

"Dat I am."

"New in town?"

"Aye."

"I'd offer you a drink, but I see yeh've already got one."

"Cheers." And Trista drank with him. "So…" she hesitantly broached her subject. "I've heard dere are a lot of murders around 'ere."

"It's a big city." The man shrugged. "But you'll be safe enough around here, as long ya keep to yer loyalties."

"What does dat mean?"

"I just mean… the Irish, we protect our own… as long as they keep t' the good."

"You mean da Saints."

The man jerked his head towards her. "Why d'yeh say that?"

"I've heard dey… avenge de wronged… exterminate evil. An' I've heard dey run in dese circles."

The man turned to face her now full on. "You listen ta me now, missy, and you listen good. The Saints are exactly what their name says: saints. They keep our people safe, not ta mention the rest of Boston. I don' know what yeh've heard up ta now, but whatever it is, ferget it. All you need to know from now on is that yer first loyalty should be ta God and yer second t' the Saints. Got it?"

Trista nodded.

"And I'd stop askin' around like that if I were you."

And then he was gone.

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A/N: review please!


	4. An Anonymous Tip

It gnawed at Trista that she was back at McGinty's for another night. But if that man's outburst the night before had shown her anything, it had shown her she was on the right track. Tonight finished out her first week, and she didn't have time to go looking for another trail. The one she had would have to do. It was early yet, and the bar was still fairly empty. Not as empty as it had been the night before, granted, but you could still see through the smoke to the other end of it. The lights were low as usual and the murky feeling of the bar was getting to Trista. She'd been raised to stay away from places like this. But the patrons were nice enough and no one ever did any real harm to her. She was always pulled out of the way by some good Samaritan or another when a bar fight broke out. Trista had no doubt that she would be safe her from all but the end of the world, but it was an ingrained reflex to shudder at the thought of smoke and bar fights.

The barkeep touched her shoulder as he passed by where she was sitting at the bar on his way to deliver a drink. She looked on after him, and he came 'round the bar when he was done as if to strike up a conversation. Trista had decided to pointedly dread these a little bit less. A relaxed attitude would certainly work more in her favor.

"I wanted ta talk with you."

It was an odd way to start up a conversation, especially for a bartender, but Trista let is slide by. "What about?"

He looked around apprehensively, and leaned over on his elbow to be closer to her. "I 'eard what yeh were talkin' about ta that guy last night," he said in a low voice.

"What? Y'already knew I'm new in town," Trista said trying to direct the conversation away from where she knew it was going. She should ride it out, she knew, but something inside her told her that would not be a good idea.

"Don't worry. I'm not like 'im. Not about the Saints, at least."

"No?" Now Trista perked up.

"No." Again the bartender looked around him apprehensively. "I'm just wonderin'… why the Saints? And why ask around 'ere?"

"I was just trying ta make conversation--"

"I know better than that, now, Trista." He sighed. "Look, I think the previous owner of this bar may 'ave 'ad some sort of accord with them, but I don't. I can assure yeh of that."

"Yeh don't?"

"Yeh don't believe that? Well, I don't. I think what they do is 'orrible. I don' care if they only kill bad guys. What if they got the wrong man? What if a civilian was around? What if one of them had a wife there er a family?"

Aside from the fact that Trista didn't think that Russian mobsters brought their kids to work with them even if it _was_ Take-Your-Child-to-Work Day, she saw what he meant. "But dat's never 'appened, has it?"

"Well, no. Not yet… All I'm saying is it's wrong to kill, no matter who yer killin'. The Lord himself says, 'Thou shalt not kill.'"

"You run a bar. Isn't drunkenness also a sin?" Trista joked.

But the barkeep didn't take it as such. "Well, it's not a commandment!" he defended. "And yer the one drinking. I'm jus' serving yeh."

Trista chuckled. "Relax. It was a joke."

The bartender fumed, but quickly got over it. "Okay. Never mind. All I'm saying is they're bad news. But don't say that to anyone 'round 'ere. And most of all, don't tell them I said so. I'd lose all my business."

"What d'yeh mean? Why? Just for having an opinion?"

"None of 'em will say it, but they all 'ave some sort of common understandin' among them 'bout it… and not against it. They know things, and I know it. But I can never quite figure who knows what and who knows what else. They never say anything' to give that away. They only ever defend the Saints, but never tell yeh why."

"Have y'asked?"

"Me? No. I've got too much to lose. One person turns against me, an' I'm broke. They ban together that way, too. But I've seen people ask. I've seen newcomers and outsiders all but flayed alive for one misplaced word. Yer lucky fer the response yeh got, but it's probably only because yer just in from Ireland. An American outsider in 'ere asking those questions in the way yeh asked 'em… Let's just say… it wouldn't be pretty."

So Turnbaum had been right. "I didn't mean…"

"I know. And they know. They won' hold it against yeh, don't worry. I just wanted ta tell yeh so yeh don't get in that place again."

"Right." Trista said softly. "Tanks."

The barkeep held out his hand. "I'm Patrick, by the way."

She shook it. "Trista."

"Yeah, I got that." And then he was off to serve his customers.

It was another twenty minutes before Trista heard or said anything. She was too lost in her contemplation to notice what was going on around her. She had to find a way to crack this façade without endangering herself. She had to find a back door. But when she did speak again it was to respond to the greeting of one of the trio she had met three nights previously.

"Yer the girl from th' other night… Trista."

"Yeah. Connor and Murphy, right?" And she smiled weakly.

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A/N: So? What do you think? Review please and tell me. As you can probably tell, more to come from the brothers in the next chapter… and Trista, of course. Thanks for reading!


	5. Meet and Greet

A/N: The Connor and Trista chapter you've been waiting for…

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Trista didn't immediately reciprocate the conversation they threw her way, thinking she'd have gotten something out of them earlier if there was anything to get. But then she reconsidered, citing Patrick's earlier words as her excuse.

"So… yer brothers, right?" And this time she smiled invitingly and twirled a strand of her raven hair in her fingers.

"Aye," Connor answered her with mirthful eyes. "Twins."

"Is dat right?"

"Aye," from Murphy.

"What do yeh do in Boston?"

"A little o' this, a little o' that. Drink mostly, and meet pretty girls like yerself."

Trista nodded solemnly, tensing up inside. Was she convincing them? She thought so. But who could tell?

"So yer new around here, eh?"

"Aye," she smiled to Connor. "Fresh off de plane… well, fresh off de plain a week ago."

"Waterford?"

"Aye." It was a common thing in Ireland to tell a person's home county from their accent, but it scared Trista that Connor had pinpointed it so well having spoken to her so little. Now the pressure was on. These were real, off-the-boat Irishmen. She had better not screw up. "Yerselves? Dublin?" She took a stab.

"Aye." Murphy smiled back at her, but only halfheartedly. There was mistrust clouding his baby blues.

"Well, seein' as yer new around here," Connor turned the conversation, "I think we'd better make you some friends."

"What d'ya mean?"

"Well, we saw ya sittin' there alone th' other day, and you were alone when we came in today. You need some friends."

"No… I don't. Friends cause trouble. I left Ireland because of trouble." It was a complete lie, but Trista figured she would need to develop some sort of back story eventually, and it would be better if she kept the people around her at arm's length while she worked on her article.

"Well, now." Connor again, leaning in a bit closer to her as he spoke. "That's intriguin'. Sad and a pity, but intriguin'."

Trista knew he was looking for an elaboration, but she wasn't ready to delve that deep into her new alternate personality, so she simply sat back on her stool, leaned her back against the bar, and took a swig of her beer… which was growing warm.

"Well, alright then, but it's different here. Here in America, they may say it's the land of the free, but yeh have ta watch where yeh go. And they may say all men are created equal, but in Boston th' Irish are still the working class, if yeh know what I mean."

"What does dat have to do wiv anytin'?"

"Trista, there're forces that'll pull yeh down if yeh try ta stand against 'em alone. In order ta survive in Boston, we Irish pull together and watch each other's backs. Our quarrel is never with each other, though the bar fights may make it seems so. Our quarrel is with those who move against us." Connor paused, trying not to sound too cynical. "Did yeh ever wonder 'bout the state o' things 'round 'ere?"

It was rhetorical question, Trista knew, so she only nodded and sipped her beer again. Murphy was being awfully quiet. It worried Trista. Did he sense something was up?

"You too, Murphy?" She directed the conversation his way.

"What?"

"You a conspiracy teorist, as well?" she teased.

"It's not a conspiracy," he responded rather solemnly. "It's the way the world works."

"Don' mind him," Connor redirected her attention. "He's just sour about the girl who dumped 'im th' other day. Let's see… who can we make your friend…?"

Connor took his time in answering his own question, plenty of time in which Trista could've protested. She thought about it, almost did. But that, she knew, would lead them in a circle, and since she hadn't changed her mind about exploring her new persona, she let the Irishman proceed as he would.

"Thomas Douglas. Irish mother, Scottish father. In from Scotland six months ago. There's no Scottish neighborhood in Boston, though, so we took 'im in. He thinks he's the cat's pajamas, but he's sound as a pound." He scanned the room slowly. "Ah! Colleen Fitzgerald. Second generation. Mother died when she was young. Father died in a factory accident years ago. She sometimes helps out waitressin' in here.' Another pause, then, "Chelsea MacDonough. Our friend Terry's sister. Terry's the one yeh met th' other night." Trista nodded. "She's datin' a prominent businessman… euh… prominent fer around here. There's the promise of a house in the suburbs in that relationship." Moments later. "Not a one?"

"Like I said, I'm not here ta make new friends. I'm here ta get away from old ones."

"Well, what d'ya call us?" Murphy put in, reminding Trista he was still there, a fact she had lamented and promptly forgotten.

"Informants," Trista risked, but Murphy seemed to have forgotten his earlier misgivings. "So who's dat over dere?" And thus, by chance and from two men she almost hadn't talked to, she got her start.

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A/N: Cat's pajamas means all that and sound as a pound means an all around good guy. Review please!


	6. Coercion and Confidence

Trista sat on the rock-hard mattress in the tiny flat, which was her undercover home. In her hands were a pencil and a small notebook, which she was using to export all the information her brain had just collected in McGinty's. Colleen Fitzgerald, Chelsea MacDonough, John O'Leary, even the twins each had a page of their own. Name, birth date, generation, occupation, relations. Many of the sheets had blank spaces, especially in the birth date category, but Trista figured she could fill these in with time. All she needed to get more of that was a start, an in. She had that now. But she was damned if she was going to go back to Turnbaum with just this, not while she had time left to connect the dots. She jabbed her pencil into her hair and flipped to the first page, ripping her notes out all as one. She could do this. She had the utmost confidence.

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Connor and Murphy had retired to their apartment fairly early that night. Trista had left after only a couple hours of talk, saying she had to get up early for work in the morning. After that, the twins had found the bar fairly lifeless. It had been packed, true, but everyone seemed in a funk, with a sort of lethargy about them. Murphy had already been restless already, having sat through a conversation mostly between Trista and his brother, which he counted as a complete waste. He had wanted nothing more than to go back to the apartment; if he was going to do nothing at the pub, he figured, he might as well be vegging at home. So now here they were in their not-so-homey home. Murphy was, as promised, vegging in front of the television, while Connor was in the kitchen scrounging for something to eat.

"Trista seemed nice," Connor mentioned a little too casually as he came around the half wall that separated the kitchen from the living room.

"Aye."

"Good for conversation once you get 'er goin'."

"Aye."

"And we haven't had anyone new in from back home in a while."

"Aye."

Connor marched forward and stood in front of the TV, much to Murphy's dislike, which he voiced in the form of numerous protests and curses. "Ya like 'er?"

"Aye, well enough, but I like me TV."

"No, I mean are ya interested?"

"I don't know. She's alright, I guess."

"She seems ta like yeh."

"Aye?"

"She kept tryin' ta get yeh ta talk, not successfully, but she kept tryin'."

"Aye, that she did."

"But, Murph, I don't tell ya this so ya go fuck 'er."

"What's all this about then? You like 'er? She's yers."

"No, I don't like her, but I think she's a nice girl and been hurt back home. Ta be takin' advantage of her now in this unfamiliar place as she's runnin' from somethin' would be shit. We should be her guides."

"Her guides?"

"Fuck, she needs a friend or two right now, regardless of how much she insists she doesn't. You see her in there by herself brooding every night."

"Aye. I suppose." Murphy assented. But Connor still seemed to be looking for something. "Fine. Wer her friends. Now can I see th' TV?"

Reluctantly, Connor moved.

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Trista stood silently, finally ceasing in her mad shuffle. She crossed her arms across her stomach, surveying her work, and smiled. Before her hung twenty-seven sheets of paper, filled in to different extents and stuck with push-pins into the crumbling drywall of the rundown apartment in three neat rows of nine. She could do this. And she would.

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A/N: Thus, it begins. Like it?! Let me know!


	7. The Ensemble Cast

"So d'ya see de paper dis mornin'?"

"Aye. Great front page, I say. Cheeriest thing I've read in the news all week."

"Yeah? Yeh tink it's great too, den?" Trista questioned Joe McBride as he sat next to her at the bar, careful not to say exactly who he was agreeing with.

"O' course!" Joe exclaimed. "They keep my children safe and make my wife happy ta run on an errand alone late at night. They're true saints, they are."

Trista nodded comprehension, but hoped he took it as agreement. "Any idea why dey do it?"

"The men they kill are evil."

"Oh, I know. I just meant I wonder what got 'em started, what gave 'em d'idea."

"Oh, I don't know really. Doesn't matter to me why they do it as long as they keep doing it. Makes my life a whole hell of a lot easier."

"Mmmmm…" she mumbled and nodded again.

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"I heard Corrigan's in de hospital."

"Aye. Bar fight. They're normally harmless, but every once in a while…" Danny McCullough trailed off, shaking his head.

"It's a pity."

"Aye, but it happens rare enough."

"Don't yeh sometimes wish all dat fightin' in general would just stop, dough?"

Danny shrugged his shoulders. "It's normally harmless, like I said."

"If yeh tink harmless is just a few broken ribs ta be patched up."

Danny shrugged again.

"D'ya ever wonder if one day de Saints'll get fed up wiv it all and put an end t'it?" she tried ever so carefully.

Danny just looked at her for a moment, but decided she didn't mean any harm by the question. "The Saints'll never turn on their own, Trista."

"So dey _are_ Irish."

"O'course. I certainly woulda thought you knew that. It's all over the papers even, and the TV."

"I tought it was just speculation," Trista quickly explained.

Danny shrugged and waved his hand as if to dismiss the subject. "But besides all that, Trista, bar fights aren't evil. They're sins, sure, but not evil. Ya go ta confession and you do your penance and go on with yer life. The Saints prefer ta leave minor sins ta priests and the God they serve."

"De Saints or de priests?"

"Well… euh…" Danny furrowed his brow. "… both. O' course."

"O' course," Trista agreed.

………………………………...

"It's gettin' late. I'd better be goin'," Trista put her plan in action.

"It's only ten, Trista." Moreen Woulfe was clearing the last of the dishes off of the table from their dinner hours earlier. "What's the rush? And ya can't tell me yeh've got work tomorrow; it's Saturday."

"No, no work. I just… wan' ta get home," she said, and let Maureen know it was a lie.

"Come on, Trista, enough already. What is it?"

"I don' know…" She made her voice hesitant and unsure. "I just… Back in da Decies, I lived in a tiny little town where everybody knew each oder and each oder's business. I don' know. I guess I'm still just a little… scared… by dis city."

"What is there ta be scared of?"

"I don' know, Maur. I just don' really like walkin' home alone late at night."

"Well, why not, Trista? I mean, this neighborhood is exactly like your hometown. You see a bar fight ahead of you, you just duck into any building. The occupants'll give ya shelter 'til it's passed. Anythin' other than that… the Saints'll take care of."

Trista smiled to herself. She had lain her trap well. "D'ya ever wonder 'bout dat, Maur?"

"What?"

"How much faith everyone around here seems ta put in da fact dat de Saints'll take care of it'."

Maureen shrugged. "Not really. They say it because it's true. The Saints do their job, and they do it well. But I take it you do?"

Now Trista shrugged. "I'm not really sure." She took a cup in her hand and traced around its rim with her finger. "It just seems… I don' know. I mean, o' course, I'm glad dere er fewer mobsters on de street an' all… but d'yeh ever wonder if de Saints'll make a mistake or sometin'?"

"What d'yeh mean? If they'll take the wrong person?" At Trista's nod, Maureen assented. "I suppose it could happen, but it hasn't happened yet. I think they make pretty damn sure they know who they're chasin' before they go in fer the kill. But that's not why you're afraid of walkin' home is it? You don't have to worry about that anyways. The Saints don' take women."

"But what if you got caught up in sometin' accidentally?--"

"I don't think that's going ta happen on your walk between here and yer apartment. They don't work in this neighborhood."

"--And can't women be evil, too? So how does dat work?"

"Look, Trista, I don' know why yer havin' such a hard time wif this, but ya just have ta trust that the Saints are there to keep ya safe."

"We just never had anytin' like dis back home." Again Trista shrugged. "All de killin' we heard about on de behalf of religion was because of a difference of opinion."

"I know. My family's from County Monaghan originally an' we still 'ear about relatives caught up in it all… But enough o' that. Come on, let's go 'ave a drink wif the boys, eh? And if you really don' wan' ta walk home alone, I'll have one of them walk ya later on."

"Oh, yeah. A drunken protector. Dat'll do nicely," Trista joked, but entered the kitchen through the swinging doors after her friend.

………………………………...

Trista sat once again on her rock-hard mattress staring up at her wall of wonders. She had, as always, come home to her notebook and pencil to make changes and add new names. It had been a month since she'd started the assignment, having easily convinced Turnbaum that she was well on her way to a story, and the wall had grown to include neatly typed descriptions of main players, photos of those she had an excuse to photograph, and newspaper clippings of anything that was remotely related to the Saints. She stood slowly and approached the wall ever so cautiously, as though it might be frightened away if she made a quick movement. Carefully, she removed one of the photos on its pushpin and replaced it a little higher and to the left. Then she took hold of the ball of red string sitting on the floor next to her and connected the picture to that of another "major player" on her wall. She had done this to many a photo and now a web was beginning to form itself, a web based on the relationships around which the community ran. She was progressing well, she thought, and reclaimed her place on the bed.

………………………………...

"Hey, Patrick."

"Hey, there, Trista what can I get ya?"

"The black stuff."

"What else?" Patrick was always teasing her about her lack of creativity. It was still early and there were only a few other people in the bar as of yet, so Patrick risked a stab at a controversial topic. "D'ya see what those bastards did now?" And Trista knew he meant the Saints. She only nodded. "Some day, I tell ya, they're gonna get theirs." She only nodded again and stared at her beer. "What's the matter?" She shook her head. "What? You don't think they're…"

"I'm not sure."

"Oh, you're not--"

"Don' worry about it, Pat. I'm not goin' ta say anytin'." The barkeep visibly relaxed. "It's not dat I don't tink…" She sighed. "I'm not sure, Pat. I'm just not sure."

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A/N: The black stuff references Guinness or Murphy's. Other than that… Can you read the accent? Is it good? Are you having a rough time with that? Or… um… well… how about you just tell me what you want. Cool. Off to read Vonnegut. Toodles.


	8. Weaving Webs

A/N: Sorry it's been so long guys. Summer homework assignment had to dominate my life for a while. But I'm back not and so are Trista and the boys.

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This was her big break, Trista thought as she sat in the booth in McGinty's, once more alone. But it wasn't what she had expected. She hadn't expected to acquire a taste for beer. She hadn't expected to feel at home in the presence of smoke and bar fights. And she certainly hadn't expected to make so many friends. But something about this life pulled her to it, drew her into it, and Trista could not, and did not want to, escape it. What Connor had said that second night had been true: the neighborhood was just one big family. They were always around and always helping one another out, and not just providing shelter from bar fights. If a family was having a rough time of it, they could count on their neighbors to tide them over, even if all their neighbors had to give was their last penny saved. She hadn't counted on any of this, but most of all, she hadn't counted on the doubt that was seeping into the corners of her mind.

Before coming here she had, as most of the upper-middle class of Boston, thought the Saints' claims that they killed at the behest of God were absurd. But now she began to wonder, and questioned whether or not the others in her usual circles really knew what they were writing off so easily and so often or just frowned on it out of necessity in order to keep the social status they'd achieved. She worked for the main news paper covering the Saints, and yet she still had had no idea… Who'd started it anyways? Who'd said, 'The Saints are bad,' and set it off from there? Who'd been the leader in a group that now consisted solely of followers following only each other, not even bothering to ask why?

They were ridding the world of evil. Wasn't that a good thing? Wasn't it?

Trista thought of the newspaper clippings hanging on her wall. The work progressed. But did she want it to? This was her big break. She had to want it to. She had come into this with such fervor and determination. She could barely believe that in just one short month her entire world view had been changed irreparably. She wondered if, in fact, the Saints were right, if, in fact, they were doing God's work, though she'd never quite believed in him in the first place.

She thought again of the web she continued to weave on her wall and wondered how easy it would be to slip into the web of lies she'd created around herself and just be Trista O'Fallon, Irish national living and working within the Irish community and family of South Boston. She wondered about the web of her life she'd been unweaving as she went along living her lies. She wondered what she would find when she got to the center of it. A family community? Contentment and continued safety? Happiness? She doubted it. So, knowing all of that, knowing how very much superior this working-class web of people was to her own, how could she tear into it as she knew she would have to to get her story? She had wedged her way in like an arrowhead, and pulling out now would rip the flesh or the entire district asunder.

It came down to a simple question she just couldn't answer: did she want the Saints' work to continue… or her own?

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A/N: Ahhh….. the ultimate question… er… one of them. So. What do you think? Whose work will she continue? Review please, and thanks for reading!


	9. Mercy

A/N: It is really ironic, Nyah1, that you asked for "a little more action" since this is one of the action movie chapters. Amazing. Anyhow. I'm not an action writer so if you have pointers on this please let me know. Enjoy.

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The Grigorovich Family. The new "first family", as it were, among the Russian mob. Time to take them out. Connor and Murphy had spent the last two weeks on and off of surveillance duty. They'd come up with countless plans for the hit, and countless reasons why they wouldn't work. Finally, they had one they were sure of.

Tonight the head members of the Grigorovich family were to meet at a remote and abandoned warehouse just outside of Boston proper.

Tonight the head members of the Grigorovich family were to die at a remote and abandoned warehouse just outside of Boston proper.

And the Saints would be the cause.

The brothers sat in the car parked in the parking lot of a diner ten minutes' walk from the warehouse. Each looked at the other… just to make sure. Then, as one, they exited and walked the distance to the site.

It was utterly silent outside the warehouse as the brothers approached. They'd expected guards, but apparently the Grigoroviches were foolishly confident in themselves and their location as the brothers found none upon searching the perimeter and the surrounding bushes. They walked back to the main door together, gave each other a silent nod, and split, Murphy taking up a position at one side door, Connor at the other. Then they waited. They would know when the time was right when they heard the gunshots. Their father was meeting them and would be the first into the building, coming through the main door. Each brother calculatedly checked his guns, tugged on his gloves, pulled on his ski mask, and hunkered down to wait.

They didn't have to wait long before they heard soft distant footsteps, followed by the scrape of metal on metal as the main doors flew open and the all-too-familiar sound of gunshots ringing through the night air, better, hitting their target. Connor and Murphy barged into the room as one, upsetting the meeting so much not one of the Grigoroviches could figure out where to look. Two, four, five down before the Grigoroviches gained their feet and the shots came back at them heavily. Each MacManus ducked in turn behind a column or around a corner. Then, with practiced precision, each MacManus spun out of hiding and planted a bullet in his target, before spinning back under cover.

The room was completely silent. The brothers poked their heads out one after the other and darted to the next column, then the next. They continued until one called out, "Drop the gun!" and the other scampered out to meet him. Iosif Grigorovich's gun clattered to the floor. "Out there. Inta the center," Connor commanded. Iosif complied.

"On yer knees!" yelled Murphy.

"Say goodbye," their father spoke slowly, coming out from around a corner.

"In Nomeni Patri, Et Fili, Spiritus Sancti." Their prayer ended.

The shot rang out… and died.

The three MacManuses then turned to attending to their victims and their mess. Iosif, his brother Mikhail, another brother, Anatoli, their father, Avgust. Arms crossed, coins on eyes, all like clockwork, until, "How many did yeh say there were supposed ta be?"

"Ten," Connor called to his brother.

"Fuck! We're missin' one.' And as he announced this shots came at them from the back of the warehouse.

Each Saint instinctively took cover, and each Saint instinctively shot back. Connor and his father gave cover fire as Murphy moved towards the shooter. Abruptly, the shooter's firing stopped. "Y'alright?" Connor called out, slightly worried.

"Aye." But that gave away Murphy's position and he scrambled away as bullets came screaming his way. A moment later he had recovered and was almost upon the shooter. He could see his shoulder sticking out from behind the stack of boxes he was hiding behind. Making a quick move, he dashed behind the shooter. "Drop the-- holy fuck!"

Connor was out and running towards them before he had time to think. All he knew was something was very, very wrong, and he had to get to Murphy before--

A shot rang out.

Connor dropped to the floor.

"Son?" came the call.

Murphy had no idea whom his father was addressing, but he could not take his eyes off of the shooter to find out. "It's a fuckin' girl!"

"Fuck!" He heard Connor call out behind him as he rose from the position he'd assumed on the floor in order to avoid the shot the woman had sent his way.

"Drop the fuckin' gun!" Murphy yelled finally.

The woman shook her head. "Doesn't matter anyways. I used my last shot trying to hit him." And the gun cried out as it hit the floor. "Why I bothered I don't know. You've killed off most of my family and odds are the rest are next, no? So. Go ahead. Kill me." And with that she stepped forward into the middle of the room and dropped to her knees, her head bowed, three guns following her every move.

"No," Da said calmly. "You don't get out that easily." The three were upon her now and as she raised her head to ask what exactly he meant, he told her. "We do not kill women." And everything went dark.

………………………………...

Trista stood solemnly in front of her web of red string. Thanks to the last hit, and the testimony of Ivana Grigorovich, three photos and bios now hung pinned in a row in the center of the web.

They hadn't killed her. They had let her live. If that wasn't mercy, what was?

But it was her break.

Her one and only break.

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A/N: So here I answered a very important question in my mind, which was the whole woman thing, without the boys taking her in as their charge and someone falling in love with her… not that that's not alright sometimes… Anyhow. One more thing on the list of "pros". The action continues to pick up from here, though not always with guns and bullets. Thank you far all of your great reviews and please continue to let me know what you think.


	10. Guilt and Humiliation

Trista sat alone in the same booth at McGinty's once again, this time not because she was looking for an in, but for an out. She felt horribly guilty and completely humiliated. And it was eating away at her soul. She had been wrong. And it was a damn good thing she had been wrong. Because that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was she'd turned them in.

………………………………...

"_Mr. Turnbaum. Mr. Turnbaum!" Trista called after her boss as he strutted down the hall away from her. Every head in the room turn towards them._

"_Miss Jansen?! You're not supposed to be here," he chided._

"_I got it!"_

"_You got it?" Turnbaum took Trista by the arm and pulled her into a nearby conference room. "Out!" he shouted to its occupants, who were quick to obey. "So?" he asked when the door was shut behind them in a voice that was surprisingly quiet._

"_I got it. The three Saints -- actually… they're related. And that really helped to narrow it down. I mean there aren't that many families who could've done it. A father and son team in good enough shape to--"_

"_Just get on with it! Who are they?"_

"_Kevin, Adam, and Eoin O'Fogarty. And I've already checked them out. With a haircut, the sons could easily match the police sketches released. And the father… well with that beard he's got in the sketch I don't know much of anyone who couldn't possibly match up t' him with a shave. Eoin works at a plastic parts factory, as do 'is sons, an' I talked ta the manager there and he told me they were all an hour late the morning' after the last murders, said they'd had a late night out drinking. Now, Eoin's and Irish native, as is his wife. Kevin and Adam were born here in America, but… raised in a house with teo Irish parents, livin' in an Irish neighborhood… plenty of guys around there who were born here… ya couldn't tell the difference from the way they talk. Now I asked around at the bars and nobody I talked to remembers seein' 'em on the night of the murders. I've searched every angle. James, these are yer guys."_

_Turnbaum spun on her at her use of the familiar name._

"_Mr. Turnbaum, sir," she corrected and paused to place emphasis on her words. "These _are _your guys."_

………………………………...

_Trista sat again on her rock-hard mattress with her head in her hands, trying not to look up at the red woven web that covered her wall and plagued her mind. But even with her eyes closed she saw it, with the three sullen faces staring down at her. And in her mind she heard their voices and the voices of her newfound friends telling her, "The Saints'll take care of it." But the Saints would no longer take care of it._

_Not that she had to worry about that. Trista had gotten her break and once the story was out she could go back to her old life and her comfortable apartment, back to being Trista Janson, writer for the South Boston Tribune. She could forget all this, forget all that had happened in the past two months, and go on to live her life without thinking back to the time she'd feared becoming the next obituary writer from cubicle 19. She could finally go home to her friends and her boyfriend. She could finally have Sunday dinner with her grandparents. She could finally do whatever she wanted to do. But all she wanted to do was go back in time and send her big break through the paper shredder. _

_Slowly Trista looked up at the web. Red, red string swinging from one pushpin to the next around and around. She rose from the bed and walked over to the web, raising a hand to touch the photos of the men she'd condemned. She would never come back from this. She knew that now._

_In the second before her hand touched the first picture, the phone rang. Trista jumped. After a minute taken to compose herself, she picked it up hesitantly. "Hello?"_

"_Miss Janson, it's James Turnbaum."_

"_Oh, hello, Mr. Turnbaum," Trista said letting out a relieved sigh that it wasn't one of her new Irish friends. She didn't think she could face them right now._

"_Miss Janson, we have a slight problem."_

"_Oh?" she asked, tensing up again._

"_Miss Janson, the O'Fogarties have alibis… Miss Janson, they're not our guys."_

………………………………...

What now?

It was the only question on Trista's mind as she sat alone in the now crowded pub. Turnbaum still wanted her on the case. She was deep into the Irish circles now, and he couldn't afford to send someone else in. But could she do it? She still had a chance at her break. But hadn't she just been bemoaning her mistake an hour ago in her apartment, wishing to take it all back? But she still had a chance at her break. She'd almost hoped Turnbaum would take her off the case, though she'd known that wouldn't happen. It would've made her life a whole lot easier, though.

She went to take a swig of her beer and, realizing it was empty, called Patrick over with another.

"Four in one night, Trista?" he remarked. "Somethin's up." But Trista declined to respond, and Patrick only turned away to tend to his more chatty customers.

Four in one night indeed. And three nearly condemned in one fell swoop, Trista thought to herself, downing the beer. Just to make it go away. Just to make her stop thinking. She looked around, but Patrick was busy at the bar. Might as well go up there and make it all easier, she thought. Then she took notice of the patrons sitting there: Connor and Murphy MacManus at one end, Eion O'Fogarty at the other. Trista chose the lesser of two evils.

"Trista!" the brothers greeted her as she plopped down beside them. And then came the inevitable, "You look like shit. What happened?"

Trista shook her head. "I almost did sometin'… incredibly fuckin' stupid."

"Really, now? It couldn'ta been that bad," Murphy encouraged her.

"Aye. What was it?" Connor this time.

"Yeh don' know. An' yeh don' wan' ta."

"Come on now, what was so fuckin' 'orrible?"

"I just want…" Trista was about to say she wanted a beer, but thought better of it and searched her mind. "…sometin' harder."

"Comin' up." And in no time a double malt was sliding her way.

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A/N: So? Was that predictable or…. No? I really want to know. But Connor/ Trista action is starting up well, eh? Questions? Comments? Opinions?


	11. Seventeen Drinks Later

A/N: So this chapter could be a little confusing. If it's odd it's probably in the author's note at the end. I put asterisks by the two colloquialisms so you can pick them out. I won't delay you any more. Enjoy.

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Four hours later all three of the companions were chuck full of beers and singing up a storm along with the rest of the bar… and badly.

"If anyone can aid me, it's my brother in the army,  
If I but knew 'is station in Cork or in Killarney,  
And if he'd come and join me, we'd go rovin' in Kilkenny,  
He'd treat me a damn sight better than my darlin' sportin' Jenny.

"Musha-re-ta-ta-do-ta-ta-da,  
Whack for my Daddio,  
Whack for my Daddio,  
There's whiskey i' th' jar!"

The song ended, and the entire bar fell down to their chairs in a drunken stupor and started laughing their guts out.

Conner took a minute to catch his breath, before climbing up onto the bar and announcing, "Here's to a long life an' a merry one." A cheer rose from his audience. "A quick death an' an easy one," he continued to the response of another cheer. "A pretty girl an' an honest one." Again a cheer. The Irishmen knew where he was going with this. "A cold beer—an' another one!" The greatest cheer yet. Connor jumped down, chugged what remained of his Guinness and plopped himself down on his stool again.

Taken in the spirit, another speech was soon made, this one by Shane Berry. "An Irishman is never drunk as long as 'e can 'old onto one blade o' grass and not fall off th' face o' th' earth." Cheers again and more drinking.

Gary Byrne was up for the challenge, as well, it seemed, as he jumped up on a chair. "Some Guinness was spilt on the barroom floor when the pub was shut for the night. When out of 'is hole crept a wee brown mouse and stood in the pale moonligh'. He lapped up the frothy foam from the floor then back on his haunches 'e sat. And all night long, you could hear the mouse roar, 'Bring on the goddamn cat!'" Roars of laughter filled the pub and yet more drinks were served.

"Alright now, listen 'ere," Murphy called and the crowd quieted. "A man walks int' a bar--" But the crowd was already booing in protest. "--Now jus', jus' wait now," Murphy assured them. "A man walks int' a bar an' hears piana music. He looks at the piana an' can't see anyone sittin' there, so he walks over and discovers a foot-tall man standin' on de piana bench playin' the tune o' Danny Boy. The man thinks this is strange so 'e goes over ta the bartender and asks where the man came from. 'Here,' says the bartender, an' he hands the man a genie lamp, 'rub this.' So the man rubs the lamp and out comes this genie. 'What d'yeh wish fer?' asks the genie. 'A million bucks,' he says. 'Granted.' An' the genie claps his hands… an' poof! He's back i' th' lamp. The man looks around, checks his pockets but can' find a million bucks anywhere. Jus' at that moment, a million ducks fly through the bar. An' the man says: 'Hey! I didn' ask fer a million ducks!' And the bartender, he says, 'D'yeh think I asked for a 12 inch pianist?'" The crowd had given in -- anything anyone said in their inebriated state would be funny -- and laugher filled the room once again.

"Alright! Alright!" Patrick called from the middle of the room, but the laughter and raucous only continued. So he mounted a table and tried again. "Alright, now there lads! Alright! Come up fer air!" And finally the lot turned to look at him. "I'm goin' ta have ta be closin' up now." A wealth of negative comments rose from the crowd. "I know. I know, lads. But yeh can drink again tomorrow night, an' if I don't kick yeh out o' here soon, all yer wives'll have my arse!"

So the crowd filed one by one out the door in their drunken stupor, a song rising amongst them along the way.

"Oh all the money e'er I had

I spent it in good company.

And all the harm I e'er have done,

Alas, it was to none but me."

"Sláinte" Patrick farewelled the three, patting Connor on the shoulder as he passed by.

"Croi follain agus gob fliuch," Connor responded laughingly, and they exited the bar.

"So fill me to the Parting Glass;

Good night and joy be with you all.

"Oh, all the comrades e'er I've had…" The song drifted about in the night air.

Trista less walked out of McGinty's, more fell out of it. Connor caught her by the arm and pulled her upwards. "Whoa, there. Y'all right?"

Trista nodded, but then shook her head, seeming to change her mind. "I 'ave screwed up, Connor. I have screwed up big time."

"Oiy, Christ, not this again!" Murphy called behind them.

"I have!" Trista demanded. "As sure as yeh've got a hole in yer fuckin' arse, I have! I have fucked everytin' up, fucked it all to goddamn fuckin' hell… Fuck it!" Connor broke out in a cackle and ended up bent over in the street, clutching at the stitch in his side. "What de fuck's so funny?!" Trista yelled at him, nearly falling over without his grip on her arm.

"I'm sorry. I'm fuckin' sorry, Trista, but, Jesus Christ, what the fuck did yeh do that was so fuckin' bad it's got yeh talkin' as bad as Murph and me all'va sudden? Ya fuckin' kill a bastard?!" And he grabbed her arm again, only half to support her and half to pull himself up from his fit of hilarity.

"Yeh have no fuckin' idea. It was fuckin' brutal! It was like trowin' goddamn apples inta a fuckin' orchard, it was!"

"Ya didn' kill a bastard, did ye?" Connor asked, sobering up, with Murphy close behind him for the answer.

"No, I didn' fuckin' kill anyone, but dat doesn't mean it wasn't bad as fuck," Trista claimed once again.

"Well if yer not goin' ta tell us what ya did then I'm afraid it doesn't matter how fuckin' bad it was, wer not interested. Now come on. I'll walk yeh home."

"I don' need you ta walk me 'ome. I'm perfec'ly safe in dis… here. De Saints take care of it… me… everybody."

Murphy and Connor shared a look. "Aye, that they do, but yer in no shape ta get home by yerself, now. Ya can' even stand up straight. Let 'im walk yeh home," Murphy told her. And without another word she assented and they were off, she and Connor staggering toward her apartment, Murphy splitting off the other way and jogging to meet up with his friends.

Ten minutes later, Trista and Connor were stumbling up the stairs to Trista's flat, singing _Garryowen _at the top of their lungs and ignoring the obscene protests of the neighbors. "From Garryowen in glory," the song ended and the two stood in front of Trista's door, pausing, for a moment, to catch their breath. Connor stood hunched over, hands on knees, laughing to himself. Trista pushed herself up off the wall she'd fallen into and dropped her hands onto her hips. They were quiet for a moment as Connor rose.

Trista was piss drunk and this she knew, but not a-one other coherent thought passed through her head at that moment as she fell forward onto Connor, this time on purpose. Their lips touched and she smelled the heavy scent of the alcohol on his breath for the first time that night. Then Connor's hands were in her hair and on her cheeks and neck, and then he was pulling her to him, his arms wrapped about her waist. The kiss deepened and, with her abdomen pressed tight against his, Trista felt that familiar pang of desire deep within her. Any other night she would've resisted it, any other night, but not tonight. Tonight, she needed to not be alone. It was why she'd gone down to the pub in the first place. Tonight, she needed someone; she needed Connor.

Connor breathed in deeply as Trista's tongue entered his mouth, and she tightened her grip around him. Suddenly, she jumped up and wrapped her legs about his hips. Connor staggered a bit in his drunken state to keep his balance, but once he found it again he move forward toward the door of Trista's apartment and pushed it aside, quickly finding the bed and laying his charge down on it.

A jumble of hands and arms and legs followed then as clothes were thrown to the floor and modesties abandoned, and moments later Connor was atop of her, and Trista had not a care in the world but the feel of him inside her.

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Just five hours later, the sun shone brightly through the east window, stirring Connor from his death-like sleep. He rolled over in the bed… and promptly fell off, groaning as his already pounding head hit the floor along with the rest of his body. He'd forgotten about last night, forgotten about where he was. He wouldn't make that mistake again. Slowly, carefully, he pulled himself up from the ground and regretfully opened his eyes to the sun.

But what his eyes met wasn't the sun.

There, standing in front of him was a wall covered entirely in red string.

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A/N: "Come up for air" means listen up. "Throwing apples into an orchard" means doing something stupid. "Sláinte" means basically "cheers", but is used here as a farewell. "Croi follain agus gob fliuch" means "A healthy heart and a wet mouth", which is also a toast but I'm using it as a farewell. Like one last toast before they go, wishing each other well. The songs used in this chapter are traditional Irish ones in the public domain. No worries. And there are traditional Irish toasts and sayings as well. Hope you liked it and it wasn't too confusing. Review please!


	12. How Fragile the Spider's String

A/N: Before we begin this chapter, I would just like to say, I've been receiving a torrent of reviews lately – or what is a torrent for me – and I am soooo very grateful of them. I love your reviews, and I'm really glad you take the time to write them… I can't think of better words to put it in now, but I'm sure any of you who are writers know what I mean. So thanks you again! Now, here is your reward: Chapter 12, How Fragile the Spider's String.

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Trista stirred slightly as she felt the sun's warmth flooding her back. Too warm. She tried to roll over to escape the glaring rays, but found the whole bed covered in the bright, cheery sunshine. Too cheery. Blood pounded through Trista's head as she hauled herself up from the bed only to promptly tumble back down to the floor. Trista groaned loudly, reached up onto the bed, and pulled her pillow sleepily down to the floor. She scrunched it up and let her head plummet down onto it. Sleep touched the corners of her mind, moving ever inward. But suddenly she jumped to her feet, ignoring the aching protests of her body and the hammering in her head.

Before her stood her web of red string.

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"Hey!" Murphy called as his brother entered, slamming the door roughly behind him. "Late night, eh? D'yeh get yer gee?"

But Connor did not respond, only stripped his shirt from his back and sat down on his bed to take his shoes off.

"What, diddies not big enough fer yeh?" Murphy goaded his brother.

"Jus' shut the fuck up, Murphy!" was Connor's only response before he tugged off his jeans and rolled back into bed.

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Trista hopped around the room with one leg in her jeans, trying to get the other in as well on her way to grab her tee-shirt from the floor where she had thrown it the night before. When she'd succeeded, she sprinted into the bathroom and grabbed a rubber band to throw her hair up with. Then she dashed out the door and all but fell down the steps in her haste to get to the MacManuses.

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"Hello?!" Trista pounded on the brothers' door as hard as she could, then cursed and clutched her head as the throbbing intensified. She paused, trying to make the hallway stop spinning. Once she had gained her bearings again, she resumed her pounding, though with less fervor this time. "Connor?! It's Trista," she called as loud as her migraine would allow. "Open up! Please! We need to talk. I didn't-- What you saw--" Trista stopped abruptly and gave a great sigh, running her hands through her hair an falling against the wall. Her eyes deepened in color and tears burst forth from behind the mental walls she'd constructed. She allowed herself to slide down along the wall and nestled her body in the corner next to the twins' door. Sobs wracked her body, and with every one ripples of pain erupted in her head and traveled the length of her to her toes. She'd never gotten very drunk before, thus she'd never really been hung-over before, at least not to this extent. Between her guilt and humiliation, her mass amounts of pain, and the fact that she had probably just screwed over the only honest friendship she'd had since high school, Trista was completely overwhelmed, her lack of sleep notwithstanding. So she curled up in a ball in the corner and sobbed herself to sleep.

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The brothers jogged up the steps to their third-floor apartment and rounded the corner in the hallway. Murphy slowed and stopped as the rest of the hallway came into sight. A tan-clad figure was curled up in the corner at the end of the hall… right in front of their apartment.

"What?" Connor asked exasperatedly as he came up behind his brother. "Oh, Jesus Christ!" he said upon seeing the figure, but only strode forward briskly and entered the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Connor?!" Murphy called after him, before following his brother down the hall. He stopped just in front of the figure crowding the hallway and bent down, removing her arm from where it covered her face ever so gently. "Jesus Christ!" he repeated his brother's phrase at he stared down at Trista's tear-streaked face. Her black hair was ratted in its pony tail, her clothes the same wrinkled ones from the night before. She'd obviously gotten dressed in a hurry -- he shirt was inside out. Day-old mascara smeared her face, and even in her sound sleep it was obvious from the look on her face that she was hurting. "What the fuck did he do to her?!" Then in a flash, Murphy was inside the apartment, berating his brother. "Connor, what the fuck, man?! What d'yeh do ta her?! Why is she out in our hallway in yesterday's clothes?! Why the fuck is she still in the hallway?! Yer not really goin' ta leave her there, are yeh?!"

Connor turn and looked his brother sternly in the eye, sternly and a little too calmly. "Yes. I am."

"Connor, what the fuck?! Yeh fuckin', bastard! What are yeh fuckin' insane?! It's Trista, fer Christ's sake! Goddamnit, what the fuck is wrong with yeh?!" he raged, shoving Connor into the wall.

"She's a freak, Murphy. There's something wrong with 'er."

"What she try somethin' odd in bed?! That's no fuckin' reason ta--"

"She has a stalker wall!" Connor yelled in his brother's face, pushing the other man back from where he had pinned him against the wall. "She's got pictures and fucking… fucking--"

Connor's explanation was cut off by Murphy's fist in his face. Stunned, Connor only stood there for a moment before he attacked his brother in kind. Murphy was thrown against the corner of their tiny kitchen table. Clutching at his back and sucking air quickly in through his teeth, he pulled himself up and ran back at Connor, punching him in the face again, trying to hit the same spot. Connor punched his brother in the stomach and then in the nose, blood seeping forth. Murphy hurled himself at his twin, and they both ended up on the floor. He pinned the fair-haired brother down and--

"Stop it! Stop it!" Trista was shrieking from the doorway. "Oh, God! Stop it!" She tore across the room to where the brothers lay frozen on the floor. She looked down at Connor first and then up at Murphy and wiped some of the blood from where it was pooling under his nose.

"What did he do, Trista? What'd he fuckin' do?!" Murphy asked her quietly, but wrathfully.

"He didn't--" She looked down at her lap and shook her head. "I--"

Connor scrambled out from under his brother while the dark-haired twin was still preoccupied with Trista. He stood with his arms crossed across his chest and looked down at her. She stood and looked pleadingly up into his fuming blue eyes. He stepped toward her, forcing her to step backwards until she was standing just in the hallway. "What's with the wall?" he asked in a hardened tone.

With a shuddering breath, she admitted, "I'm a journalist."

"From Ireland?"

"No… From the South Boston Tribune." And he slammed the door in her face.

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The booth in McGinty's had not been lonely for long. Trista had quickly reassumed her original position, though this time, with a bigger tab. She'd been sitting in that same booth for a week… or at least it seemed like it. She'd stood silently in the hallway for a while trying to come to grips with reality before stalking dejectedly back to her apartment, where she had paced back and forth for an hour or so. Then, needing to do something and get out of that apartment, out of sight of the web, she walked to the pub to sit on the stoop, waiting for the doors to open to open. Patrick had said nothing as she'd followed him in, called to him for a Murphy's, and promptly fallen down in tears in the middle of the room. He'd only walked over, pulled her up, and sat her down in her customary booth. A moment later he'd set the beer she'd asked for in front of her, as long as a shot she hadn't. "On the house," he'd told her then, patting her shoulder lightly.

From then on she'd come into the bar every day when it opened, gotten piss drunk on Murphy's and whiskey, and staggered back to her apartment at close. Turnbaum was beginning to get annoyed with her, she knew, but every time he called asking for information and then rebuking her for her lack of it she'd been either too drunk or too hung-over to care. Self-hate, self-pity, anger, sorrow, dread, not to mention guilt and humiliation. All these emotions flooded through her. But all she wanted to do was keep them away. At first, the drink did this for her. But after a time her emotions became so strong and her tolerance so high, that she was forced to make a change. So one day, only drunk enough to diminish her hangover to a dull tapping in her brain and a protesting of her legs only when she ascended stairs, Trists barged into the offices of the South Boston Tribune, and quit her job.

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A/N: "Get your gee" means have sex, and "diddies" means breasts. Other than that there's not much to explain. I can only say… what do you think of the twist here? Keep those beloved reviews coming! Much love to all of you.


	13. Sobering Up

A/N: So it's possible you're all going to hate me for a good while now, but after you hate me then you're going to love me… because there are some really good chapters. But we have to get through this stuff first, so bear with me. At least in this chapter we gain a little insight into Trista's real life and how exactly her "circle of friends" operates.

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Trista inched open the door to her lonely apartment. It was, as always, immaculately clean. Not a speck of dust invaded the space. This was largely due to Henry's knowledge of Trista's obsession with clean. Henry Joseph Largess, Trista's long-lost boyfriend, had been in every day to feed the cat and pick up the place. Now a soft mewing sound came to Trista's ears and grew in decibel as Vito purred his way up to her and rubbed his body against her legs. "Trista?" Henry was calling from the kitchen. "Trista, is that you?" Trista looked down at Vito and said nothing. Moments later, Henry was rushing in from where he been preparing Vito's food in the kitchen. "Oh, I can't believe you're finally home!" he said as he picked her up an enveloped her in a hug. "Why didn't you call? I would've set something up. Everyone's missed you a lot." He pulled back from her only after a long while and only because she did not respond to his questions. "Trista, what's wrong?"

She thought for a moment, measuring her answer, and then decided on, "Nothing. I'm… just tired. I'm sorry."

"Well are you hungry? I can make you something. You just go sit down and relax and I'll bring you some dinner. And you can tell me all about… everything."

Trista caught his arm as he was turning away to fulfill her every wish and command. "No," she told him. "Henry… I'm just tired… so tired. Henry, I just want to go to bed."

"Okay," he acquiesced. "Okay, let me help you. Here, let me--"

"Henry, go home."

"Let me help you."

"Henry! Go home!" she yelled to him. "Just leave me alone right now. Just leave me alone."

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"You quit your job?!" Henry burst out as he pushed open the door to Trista's apartment. "You quit your job?! What were you thinking?! Didn't you just get the story you want? Didn't you just live undercover for months on end for this job? Haven't you given up…. What only your entire life for this job? I mean look at us! I don't even know you anymore. And you haven't talked to any of your friends since you've been back; they've called. And you haven't called your family, haven't gone to dinner with your grandparents like you always do. You haven't done anything but sulk in here, and it's all been for that job! And now you've quit it?!"

"You don't know, Henry," Trista told him quietly.

"Tell me, then. God, I've been begging you to tell me what went on for days now and I've gotten nothing! Tell me, Trista!" Henry continued to berate her.

"Stop yelling."

"Trista would you just--" But Henry cut himself off, and then he did quiet. "Okay. Alright. You're right. I won't yell anymore. But if you would just explain this all to me, tell me what happened…"

"You wouldn't understand, Henry."

"Try me."

Trista was silent for a while, thinking. "What would you say if I told you I think the Saints are right?"

"Are you crazy?! They're killing people! Trista! What?!" Henry was yelling again and standing with his mouth agape and his shoulders slack waiting for her to tell him she was joking or it wasn't real or something to that effect. Trista only stood defiantly before him. "Trista?!"

"Well, what did I tell you?"

"Trista!--"

"Just go home, Henry. Go home and stop talking to my friends about me and don't take calls from Turnbaum. Go home and just pretend everything's normal."

"Trista, I--"

"I'll call you tomorrow."

"Trista--"

"I promise."

"Fine." And then she was alone again, with only Vito to keep her company.

The phone rang for the hundredth time that day. She let it ring.

Vito left trails of his fur around her ankles where he was rubbing himself again, begging for attention. It was too quiet.

Trista had the passing idea of returning to McGinty's, but it was only passing. Instead she turned on the television and turned into a vegetable.

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"And he said, 'What? It's just a finger!'"

The group burst out in laughter, and even Trista more than chuckled.

"Oh…. It's getting late. I have a brunch in the morning. Would you mind if we left, Jack?" Kelly asked her boyfriend.

"Well… I guess not. I mean, Kelly, I'm kind of in the middle of this."

Kelly frowned and looked down at her feet submissively. "Well, I'm actually kind of tired," Trista volunteered. "I could drive you home now if-- Henry could you just get a ride back with Jack later?" Henry shrugged, looked to Jack, and nodded, wanting to please his would-be absentee girlfriend. Trista rose from her seat in the armchair by the fireplace and moved to the entranceway to grab her coat. "I had a great time, Janie, Mark. I'm so glad we got the chance to do this. I've missed you guys."

"Oh, we've missed you too, honey!" Janie said a little too warmly as she gave Trista great hug. Mark was next in line. Then, Trista kissed Henry and nodded a farewell to Jack before slipping on her coat and leading Kelly out the door.

It was strangely silent in the car for a long space of time before Trista resolved to try to make conversation. "So I hear your parents are moving?"

"Yeah," Kelly cleared her throat and twiddled her thumbs. "They're downsizing."

Then there was the strange silence again, and Trista did not try to escape it. Maybe she'd been gone too long. Maybe it wouldn't be the same anymore. Janie was too flamboyant with her emotions. Kelly couldn't even have a conversation with her. Come to think of it, Jack had never hugged her before. Maybe things had changed while she was away. Maybe Henry had said something about her support for the Saints. Maybe she was out. Maybe. Then…

"Trista, I think I'm pregnant."

"What?!"

"I'm sorry!" Kelly immediately jumped to the apology. "I'm sorry to dump this on you, but I don't know where else to go; there's no one else I can talk to. I mean, Janie would be appalled, you know, or at least act it. And you know how Annie is; she tells Laurence everything and Laurence has no loyalty. He'll tell everyone. And Liz just doesn't care, you know. And, God, I'm sorry Trista, I know you have problems of your own to deal with right now, but I just… I just…"

Now Trista had pulled over to the side of the road and was shushing Kelly and trying to calm her down. So at least Kelly wasn't holding a grudge. And then Trista hated herself for thinking that. After Kelly had quieted, Trista sat, holding her hands and looking into her eyes, and evenly asked, "Have you taken a test?" Kelly shook her head. Trist a took a breath. "Okay. You know what? We're going to take a test. And you know what else? Whatever it says, you're going to be okay. And I am going to be there every step of the way. If you aren't, well, then we have no problem. And if you are, we'll decide what to do from there." Kelly nodded and wiped the stray tears from her eyes. "Have you talked to Jack about it at all?" And just like that, Trista was back in the loop.

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"We need you back here, Trista," is what he had said, and with that phrase as a bargaining chip, Turnbaum had gotten Trista back into his office.

"I'm going to need an office," she'd said, and with that request she'd gotten herself a full promotion.

Now Trista was sitting at her desk in the office she shared with Melanie Danesk, working on a review for a local theatre company's latest production. It was then that the subject came up. "Do you know where Andrew is? I'd like to get him to check something for me with one of his sources. I know he can get this one fact I just can't find about the lead."

Melanie hesitated. "You don't remember? He's undercover, Tris."

Trista flinched a little at the nickname, but decided not to press it. Then she realized what the rest of Melanie's sentence had been. "He's…..?"

"For the Saints story?"

"Oh," Trista faked. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, of course." And turned away to her desk with furrowed brow.

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A/N: Do you hate me yet? No? You will…


	14. How Cold is Chilly?

A/N: And now for things on the other side.

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Connor and Murphy sat rather solemnly in McGinty's, having just come from a hit. Connor glanced behind him again as he had so many times that night. "What are yeh doin'?" Murphy asked him finally.

"Nothin'." Connor shrugged it off.

"What er yeh lookin' at? Yeh've been doin' that all night. It's getting' on my nerves."

Connor sighed. "That guy in the booth."

Murphy glanced behind him. "Yeah."

"He's been alone there all night."

"Yeah?"

"Yeh should stay away from him. An' spread the word that he's not ta be trusted."

"Why?"

"He's just not."

"Connor, what the fuck? D'yeh even know his name?"

"Andrew."

"Well, what the fuck is wrong with him?"

"It doesn't matter. Just trust me. Stay away."

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Andrew rose from his booth at 2:00 am. He was unused to his new working hours and had been nodding off where he sat. The mandatory alcohol wasn't helping any. He stepped into the men's room and splashed water on his face before exiting the pub and turning towards home.

Ten minutes later he was standing in front of the wall of red string, rubbing his temples in frustration. Andrew had not made a single change to the wall since he'd taken over for Trista. He hadn't even confirmed much of Trista's information. He'd gotten the feeling sitting in McGinty's that there was something odd going on. He didn't know for sure, but he had a feeling they suspected something, if not the truth. So Andrew had been frequenting not only McGinty's but other hotspots in the area. They were mostly bars, and Andrew felt as though he was living in a fog of alcohol. He'd never had an exceedingly high tolerance. Now Andrew had entered a life where he spent half of his life sitting on a rock-hard bed staring at a web of red string and the other half drinking and trying to make conversation with patrons who hated him. How had Trista done it? How had she gotten in? And how could he? How was it possible that Trista, an employee of six months who wrote articles on road construction and new sewage pipes, could scoop a story better than he, a six year employee who'd been undercover twice before successfully? Was he losing his edge? Or was there something about Trista…?

Andrew ran his hand through his hair. Was he cut out for this? It was a deeper cover than his other jobs. And it was a bigger story. Had he been picked for his talent? No. No. He had been picked for his appearance. He had been picked for his red hair and green eyes. The fact that he was mostly Polish was of no consequence to Turnbaum. And how that irked Andrew.

He let out a frustrated grunt and tore his fingers through his hair once more before flopping down on the stone mattress and passing out.

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"Thomas," Connor called, waving his friend over. "Thomas, yeh've heard about Andrew, right?"

"Ta stay away from 'im? Yeah. Why?" Thomas asked, taking the stool next to Connor.

"I just wanted ta make sure the word had gotten 'round," Connor said vaguely. Murphy was off cavorting with his newest conquest, Anna, and Connor had taken this opportunity to come down to the pub to spread the word about his newfound enemy.

"Wha's so wrong with 'im, then?" Thomas pressed. "Everaone knows ta stay away from 'im. But no one can tell me why."

Connor stared into his beer glass, thinking. "I'm lookin' int' it, Thomas. That's all I can tell yeh for now. That's all I know. I've got a bad feelin' about 'im, an' I'm lookin' into it. I won' let the word around until I know it's the truth."

Thomas nodded. "As would any good man." Then there was a movement at the back of the bar and Thomas turned to see what it was. "Connor--" But Connor had already risen to follow Andrew out the door.

"I'm on it," he responded, swinging on his coat and left the bar.

Connor already had a fair idea of where his prey was going, so he stayed farther behind even than he normally would've, turning corners just in time to see Andrew round the next one. By the time they were halfway there, Connor had all the evidence he needed, but he continued on the trail in any case, just to be sure.

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Andrew entered his apartment and sat on his stone mattress once again. He picked up the phone and dialed. "Curtis?"

"Yeah. Have you got something?"

"No. That's just the thing. You've got to tell Turnbaum the trail's gone cold."

"Gone cold? But Trista said--"

"I know, Curtis. Believe me, I know what Trista said. But maybe… Maybe she was… embellishing it."

"What?"

"I mean is it really so hard to believe that she would embellish her sources a little bit? It was her big break, Curt."

"Andrew, I can't believe you're accusing Trista of this!"

"Curtis, I'm not--! It's just… She did think she knew that one time. And she was wrong."

Curtis was silent for a long time. Then he sighed. "Look, Andrew, if you say the trail has gone cold, I'll believe you. And I'll tell Turnbaum. But I'm not going to get into this whole Trista thing. If you want to discuss it with him, then do that. But leave me out of it. Okay?"

"Yeah, alright. Don't get so upset, Curt, geez."

"Well, it's not like you just said she was having a bad hairday. I mean this is a real accusation. And Trista's not some flunky anymore. Turnbaum loves her. He gave her a promotion to reviewer, office and all, to get her back. She's got him wrapped around her finger, and I can guarantee he's not going to look too kindly on anyone trying to sully her reputation."

"Lost your nerve, then? I thought you were a better journalist than that," Andrew joked.

But Curtis didn't see it as such. "Hey. Don't think you can take unwarranted stabs at people just because you've got this undercover job."

"Relax. I was just kidding."

"Yeah, okay."

"Maybe this late night shift's getting to you, Curt."

"Hey! I--"

"Kidding! Again. Kidding."

"Uhunh. Sure."

"Look, I'll talk to you tomorrow, eh? After you talk to Turnbaum?"

"Right."

And the phone call was over.

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Connor knocked on the door against his better judgment.

"Yeah?" Andrew greeted his much unexpected visitor.

"I'm Connor."

"Andrew."

"I know. I've heard about yeh."

"Yeh've heard about me?"

"Things get around in Irish bars."

"Ah," Andrew responded with a nod of his head.

"Look, man. I'm just comin' by ta say there er some things goin' around about yeh, and I don' know if they're true or not -- I don' like ta buy inta rumors -- but yeh might want ta watch yer back."

"Mmm. Well. Thanks then, I s'pose."

"An' by watch yer back I mean-- Andrew, yeh have ta understand something. Yeh're…" Connor hesitated here, trying to make himself sound convinced. "Yer Irish, so yeh should know. We stick together."

Andrew nodded. "Aye."

"And… we take care o' each other. Now, I like ta think the best of people, but if any of these rumors are true… Yeh know what I mean, don't yeh? Yeh seem ta be a smart guy. I don' have ta spell it out fer yeh, do I?"

"No, I understand."

"Yeah…" Connor hesitated again. "Well, I only dropped by ta let yeh know. I wish yeh the best, man." Connor gave him a pat on the arm and turned to leave.

"Well, thanks!" Andrew called, trying to be cordial. He may have underhandedly threatened him, but Connor could prove a valuable source if he got on his good side. He couldn't really afford to let any opportunity slip by, after all.

"Don' mention it," Connor mumbled in response. And then he was gone down the steps.

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A/N: Well, how do you like this chapter without Trista? A change, eh? I figured we needed to even it out a bit. Review please!


	15. Ditch the Bandwagon, Trista!

A/N: So now we're back to Trista. And this you might hate me for and you might think it's dumb or pointless or excessive or that the story could've done without it. But the pathology in my brain says it does happen. So here it is and here they are and here we go:

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"Okay. We've got four different kinds here, just to be sure. And we've got wine for a toast, or Jack… just in case we need something harder. And we've got the apartment all to ourselves. The door is locked, no one to bother us. Looks like we're ready, eh?" Trista said in the most chipper tone she felt appropriate.

Kelly nodded. "We're ready," she said determinedly.

The phone rang. "Okay. Okay, we're still ready. I'm just going to get that and then we're going to go on." Trista stepped over to the phone and picked it up. "Hello"

"Oh, Trista! I was worried. I called a bit earlier and no one answered, but you should've been home by that time."

"Henry, I can't talk right now."

"Trista, no. I need to--"

"Henry, I said it's not a good time. I'll call you later." And she hung up.

"Okay. We're ready now. Let's do this." And they did, both of them. Kelly had Trista accompany her for moral support.

Then they sat down in front of the television and put on a comedy. "Do you want to look?" Trista asked after a few minutes.

Kelly shook her head. "Not yet."

"That's fine. They'll still be there later. We can wait as long as you like."

Half an hour and three phone calls from Henry later the show was over and Trista was getting antsy. "Kelly, I think we should look now. I mean the sooner you get it over with, the sooner you can get on with your life, one way or the other."

"You mean the sooner I can figure out if I have a life anymore or not."

"Kelly, don't look at it like that," Trista tried yet again.

"Well, how else am I supposed to look at it, Trista? This test determines the rest of my life."

"That's what you said in college, remember? When you got that "B"? But you have a great job and a great boyfriend and a great life, Kelly. You can make this work. And if you think you can deal with a kid right now… you have options."

"Oh, don't give me that, Trista. My life's not like yours. My parents are on my like glue. They know everything I do. And you know what they'd think. Besides, could I _be_ anymore of a hypocrite?!"

Trista sighed. "Kelly, let's do this. You have to get it over with. We can deal with the rest of it when we cross those… bridges… or… something. Whatever. Anyhow. Kelly, let's go." Kelly only sighed.

The phone rang once again and Trista picked it up. "Henry! I told you I will call you later. Now stop calling here!"

"Trista, let me come over. There's something wrong. I can tell. What is it? Let me help!"

Kelly rose from her position on the couch, touched Trista lightly on the arm in support and disappeared into the bathroom. "Henry, there is nothing wrong with me. Now would you just leave it alone?! I'll talk to you about this later."

"Trista, listen to me!"

"No, Henry! I can't do this anymore! You need to lighten up! You need to quit being to paranoid and give me some room to breathe!"

"It's negative! Trista! It's negative!" Kelly screeched from the bathroom.

"Yes! See, I told you it would be okay!" Trista called in response, forgetting about the phone in her hand.

"Negative?! What's negative?!" Henry was yelling.

"What if it's a fluke?" Kelly asked, now standing in front of Trista, suddenly forsaking her elation.

"Oh, Kelly, don't do that." Kelly's fear paired with Henry's obsession was wearing on Trista's nature.

"Trista?!" Henry cried out for attention.

"I have to check the others! Oh God, what if it's a fluke?!"

"Trista, what's going on?!" Henry finally caught her attention.

"Henry, I told you. I can't talk about this right now!"

"Tell me what is going on!"

"Henry!--"

"Trista?" Kelly called softly, apprehensively.

"Oh God, what now?" Trista made the mistake of whispering out loud.

"Trista, what's wrong?! Oh dear Lord, what's wrong?!" Henry called. "Trista, tell me what's wrong!"

"No!"

The handset clicked off as it hit the receiver.

"Trista, um… you might want to…"

"What?!" Trista snapped. "I might want to what?! Talk to Henry?! Why?! He'll just be more of an ass!"

"…look at this…"

"Kelly, not now! I'm sorry if you're upset, but, damn it, so am I!"

"Trista…"

"For Christ's sake, what?!"

"I think you're pregnant."

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A/N: Well then… NOW do you hate me?


	16. Positive

A/N: Just a note, my updating may be sporadic and inconsistent from now on because I'm back in school, but I'm trying to keep it at least every other day. Thanks!

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"What?" Trista asked, thinking the prospect ridiculous. "Kelly, you must've mixed the tests up."

"Oh, so what? Now _I'm _pregnant? No way. You are not pawning this off on me. I did not mix them up. They were on separate sides of the counter, still are." Kelly was overly offended. The late hour was showing.

"Then it's a fluke. No big deal. Those things happen. Did you check the rest of yours, though? Are you satisfied now?"

"Trista…" Kelly tried, but couldn't get a word in edgewise.

"Well?"

"Trista, I checked all of the tests. I'm not pregnant."

"Well, see? There you are. Now, I'm sorry, but I have to ask you to leave. All of this stuff with Henry has rung me dry. I'm going to go collapse into bed." Trita began moving toward the door to see Kelly out.

"Trista, I checked all of your tests too. Look." Kelly held the four tests out in a fan for Trista to see.

"What?" And Trista moved forward, hands on hips, to view the tests. Trista licked her lips and clenched and unclenched her teeth as she stared down at the evidence before her. There was silence for a long time. Trista bit her lip. Kelly did not move. Trista took her eyes from the tests and glanced up at Kelly. "You're sure you didn't mix up the tests?"

"Positive." Trista winced.

………………………………...

List 23:

Pros:

…

Cons:

Work

Friends

Money

Apartment

Life

Henry?

Connor…

………………………………...

Trista stared down at the paper in her hand. Her twenty-third list in as many minutes and all she could come up with was the same stuff. For Baby O'Fallon: 0. Against Baby O'Fallon: 7. Time for a new list topic.

………………………………...

List 1, Henry:

Pros:

16 months…?

Cons:

Clingy

Obsessive

Baby O'Fallon

Not the One.

………………………………...

So many questions, so little time. Trista had no idea what to do. She'd run out of her list-making paper and was staring at the last one on the pad.

List 4, Adoption:

Pros:

Baby O'Fallon to good home

Baby O'Fallon lives god life

Continue with work and life

Cons:

Miss work for labor, bed rest

Carry Baby O'Fallon

Henry?

Everyone will know…

What now?

She knew what the end result would be, rather she was ready to admit it or not. And the fact that she was not ready was exactly what her lists had been for. And now she would move on to another mechanism.

"What do I tell Connor?" she asked herself aloud. "How do I reach Connor? He won't talk to me. He won't see me. _Do_ I tell Connor? How can I not tell Connor? How _can_ I tell Connor? Ah! We're going in circles here, Trista!" She wracked her brain for answers. "Trista. Trista. Trista!" She pulled her hair out of the ponytail it was in and shook it out, running her fingers through it quickly. "What do I tell Connor?" She stood from the table and began pacing around the room. "Connor, I'm pregnant." She sighed. "Connor, we were really drunk and it was really stupid, but… Connor, you remember that night when we slept together, right? Well… Surprise! I'm pregnant! Connor, it as a while ago and we were really sloshed… I don't know if you remember that night, but… to refresh your memory, we slept together and when two people… Connor, you're going to be a father.

"'What?!' he'll say. And then I'll say… Connor, I'm pregnant. Connor, I took a pregnancy test and… Connor, you _are_ going to be a father. Connor, it's true. Connor, I know this sounds bad, but really, it's not. It's good. Think about it. No! That last thing I want him to do is think about it. Then he'll just… leave." Trista sighed. She pulled her hair up to put it back into the ponytail. The elastic band snapped as she twisted it around her hair. She clenched her teeth and sucked in air. "Shit!" she yelled, bringing her wounded hand to her mouth to suck on it. "Damn it!" She took a breath, claming herself, before continuing. "Connor, I took a pregnancy test, four, in fact. They were… positive."

………………………………...

"So… have you told Henry?" Kelly asked as she returned from the kitchen with their tea.

"Henry and I are… Well, we're done," Trista admitted uneasily to her friend.

"Oh," was all Kelly said for the moment. A whole cup of tea later, Kelly decided to continue the conversation. "So… when are you going to tell him?" And at Trista's silence, "You _are_ going to tell him, aren't you?" Trista shook her head. "Trista…"

"It's not his."

"What?" Kelly was stunned. "You… cheated?"

"Oh, come on Trista, you have to have known. I mean, the time frame doesn't make any sense at all. I was back here for what? A week and a half? Two? before I found out! Before that I was undercover for almost three months. Unless I somehow snuck out and jeopardized everything to have one night with my beloved Henry Joseph Largess-- And that is absurd, as well. You have to have known that Henry and I weren't going to last! Why was I dating him, even?! For appearances. To make my family happy." Trista sighed. "Kelly… why do what we do?"

"What? Trista--"

"No-- No. I mean… all of this. All of these pretensions. All of these airs. All of this faking. Why do we do it? I had so much in that life that live for three months, so much more than I have here. Kelly, you know I love you, but… don't you wonder if we would be friend if our fathers weren't? Or if we came from different country clubs? Or from different social standings?" Trista shook her head. "There are a million people in that little Irish neighbor whom I love and whom I never would have met or even turned to look at if it weren't for this story. And I realized something." She paused, finding the best words for her revelation. "We are all just followers, standing in a row."

There was silence for a long time. "Does that mean… you're not going tell him?" Trista shook her head. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," she answered resolutely.

"So you know what you're going to do then?" Again Trista nodded. "And you're sure?"

"Positive."

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A/N: So, here goes. I've received mixed reviews of late and some which could go either way. Now I am happy to get all of these reviews because I take them all into consideration. And it is because of that that I feel it is time for me to ask: what do you want? Now I have this entire story mapped out, and I always write a few chapters ahead of what I post, but that doesn't mean there's no room for change. If you tell me you didn't like seeing Andrew and the boys and would prefer to focus on Trista, we can do that. And if you say you liked seeing them and would like to see more of them, we can do that also. We'll be going back to a more balanced equation shortly, if you know what I mean, but there are many ups and downs in this story. And it doesn't just have to be about who we see more of. So. What do YOU want?


	17. Thesis Oration

Five months later…

Murphy pulled away from the kiss and backed out through the doorway. "I'll be seein' yeh, then," he farewelled with a nod and a lustful look.

"Be seein' ya," Anna responded with a mischievous smile and shut the door.

Murphy smiled devilishly at the thoughts running through his head about the next time they would see each other, before idling down the stony steps of the townhouse and out onto the street. It had been a memorable night. But now it was the day again and Murphy had business to attend to. Down the block, he knew, there was a drugstore, where he could pick up some sort of food for the day, before making the trek back home to do reconnaissance with his brother. So Murphy headed in the direction of the store, humming elatedly along the way.

A few minutes later he was browsing the single isle of frozen, freeze-dried, and processed food that inhabited the drugstore. Pretzels or chips? Pretzels or chips? Such a very important question. It was this that Murphy was pondering when a familiar movement caught the corner of his eye. "Trista?!"

Trista whipped around at the sound of that voice. She knew that voice. She'd missed that voice. "Murphy?!" she returned, softer for her apprehension that he might flee.

"Christ, it's good to see yeh!" Murphy said, dropping his food and hurrying forward to envelope her in a hug.

"It's… good to see you too, Murph," Trista forced, quite confused. She'd thought he'd berate her or some such thing.

"How've yeh been? _Where've_ yeh been?" Murphy asked enthusiastically.

"Uh. Fine. Well, I suppose. I've been well. I've been… home." And Trista winced slightly inside to say that. "Back at work and… home."

"Oh. Well, that's… cryptic," was all Murphy could think the remark.

"Sorry. To be any more specific would be to orate my thesis."

"Well, I'm not busy. Why don't we get lunch?"

………………………………...

"I have to say, I'm surprised at your reaction to seeing me," Trista finally admitted as she handed her menu back to the waitress who had taken their order. They were sitting at a small café inside a grocery store not far down the street from the townhouse and drugstore.

"Aye?" was all Murphy said, but there was a depth of a thousand questions behind it.

"I mean… after what happened…" Trista desperately tried to avoid explaining it outright.

"Mmm," Murphy took a drag on his cigarette and nodded. "I never really understood what happened exactly."

Trista just sat open-mouthed for a moment. "You… mean Connor didn't tell you?"

Murphy shook his head. "He said yeh weren't ta be trusted. He mentioned somethin' about a wall. He said yeh were a psycho, but really, who'd believe that? But he insisted yeh weren' ta be trusted. So I let it go. I figured if it meant so much ta him…" He trailed off and just looked at her, waiting.

"I'm a journalist," she admitted bluntly. "The wall was a part of that, for the story I was working on. The job I said I'd gone back to? That's it. And the home? My apartment uptown."

Murphy was silent for a while as he took a drink of his beer, not a Guinness, but black enough to liken to one. "Journalist, eh?" He fingered his cigarette where it sat in the ashtray. "Why would yeh lie about it, then?"

"I was undercover."

"An' I suppose any information about the story is top secret, then, as well?" Trista would've admitted to the truth, but Murphy didn't give her time to answer. Apparently it was a rhetorical question. "Well that explains the whole accent thing, at least. Yer good, yeh know. Yeh should be an actress. Er a speech coach or… somethin'. Yeh had me fooled, and Connor, too." Murphy shook his head. "So yer not really Irish, then, either?"

"No, I am," Trista corrected.

"Aye?"

That was her signal to explain, and Trista didn't miss it. "My mother was Irish. She was from County Donegal, a small town called Lough Derg. She moved to Lifford when she turned eighteen. She met my father going back home from Bobby Sands' funeral while he was on vacation touring the country. He followed her back to Lifford. She was twenty-three then. They fell in love, I suppose, and they called phoned back and forth for months afterward. My father proposed, and my mother accepted. And so, my father traveled back to Ireland to see her. Everything was going well until my mother realized that my father wasn't planning on staying in Ireland, that he was planning on bringing her with him back to the States. My mother wouldn't have that. She was far too in love with her country. She was involved in the… in the demonstrations, for lack of a better word, hence the Bobby Sands thing. So the engagement was broken, and my parents went their separate ways. Months later, when I was born, my parents spoke on the phone for the first time since they'd split, and they decided it would be better for me to live in America, or safer in any case. So my mother flew me here and met my father and that was the last time he saw her.

"I visited her in Ireland once, when I was fourteen." Trista shook her head and smiled in remembrance. "She was so passionate and so alive. Her name was Molly. It's cliché, sure, for an Irishwoman, but I always liked that name. And she had splendid, wavy red hair and bright blue eyes, just like she stepped out of a photograph. I got to know her that summer for the first time. And when it was over I begged her to let me stay, to let me live in this land of great, green, rolling hills and to learn the history of the land and of my family. But she told me I had to go home, back to my father. She told me she had to get back to her work -- she hadn't participated in any demonstrations that summer, had spent the entire time with me. And she told me that my life was waiting for me back here. So I went home, and I learn the history of a land and a people I did not care for and lived in a city I did not love. And four months later, my mother was dead, killed in a demonstration. That's why she sent me back. She knew it would eventually be the end of her, the cause, and she knew better than to involve me.

"I lived only with my father all my life until it came time for college. Then, I came to Boston; my grandparents live here. In college I spent a year in County Waterford. That's why I know that accent so well. I got a degree in journalism, got a job with the South Boston Tribune, and here I am," Trista finished, shrugging off the heavier topics. She took a drink of her water to wet her throat and waited for Murphy's response.

It was not what she had expected. "I knew those were Irish eyes," he said, smiling to her with his own eyes. Trista was thrown. She probably shouldn't have been, probably should have figured that an Irishman of Murphy's mettle would need a little more to evince pity or confusion, but she hadn't. Trista was so used to the myriad pitying responses and questioning looks at her description of her mother's life and demonstrations, she had almost forgotten there _could _be another response. But Murphy knew all about the demonstrations, probably knew people who had died in the same manner as her mother, and he was not phased. "So yeh got yer job with the Tribune, which lead yeh ta this top secret, undercover assignment, which lead us ta meet. But yeh left, yes? Why?"

Trista stared into her lap for a long while. Murphy let her, waited patiently for her explanation. Their food came, and Trista took a turn staring at the plate in front of her. Finally, she lifted her head and surveyed the area around her, acting so strangely Murphy began to think maybe the story _was_ top secret after all. "The story was on the Saints. I was sent in to find out who they are. The paper's still trying to scoop it. That's why I'm so… um… discrete. I left the story…" She hesitated, gathering both words and courage. "I left the story, because I was unsure."

"Unsure?" Murphy prodded at her silence.

"I was unsure whether what I was doing was right or not. I came to find myself agreeing with the Saints, with what they do, yet I could not reconcile that with my upbringing. So I left. I decided it would be better if I weren't involved. I was just wasting time trying to decide between my traditions and my intuitions. Now… Now I'm working on other things… reviews, to be specific."

Murphy nodded. "Have yeh made a decision now?"

"Sorry?"

"About the Saints. Have yeh decided how yeh feel about 'em?" Murphy took a long drag on his cigarette as he waited for the answer.

"I've decided…" Trista hesitated. "I suppose, I've decided that they're right, after all. And that too many people in the world base their opinions on what their friends think rather than on the facts they investigate for themselves."

Murphy smiled slyly and responded, "And that, I believe, is the theme of our lunch."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

A/N: Do you understand what Murphy means by that? Tell me truly because it's rather important to the following chapters and to the central idea of this one. If it's too cryptic, I'll explain it before the next chapter. Anyhow. Other than that, County Donegal is on the border between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland. Bobby Sands, whom Trista references in her description of her past, was a member of the Provisional Irish Republican Army (henceforth PIRA) who was imprisoned after Special Category Status (status akin to that of political prisoners or prisoners of war). After the Blanket Protest and the Dirty Protest, Bobby Sands was the leader of a hunger strike aimed at reinstating the Special Category Status for incarcerated PIRA members. He starved himself to death on 5 May, 1981 after 66 days of the strike. Thousands lined the streets for his funeral. According to Trista, her mother was one of them. Also, Trista refers to "demonstrations"; by this she means that her mother was part of one of the divisions of the IRA, the Irish Republican Army, of which I am sure you have all heard. If anything else needs a footnote, please say so and I'll add one. Hope it was good. Do you love me again now?! Or do you still hate me because of the time warp? Review, please!


	18. The End has No End

A/N: So Murphy's statement: "And that, I believe, is the theme of our lunch." He is referencing Trista's statement that too many people base their opinions on what other people think rather than on what they investigate. So what he means is that if it weren't for this lunch, he wouldn't have known the truth, wouldn't have investigated for himself, would have just gone along with Connor as he had been. And that is a very important theme in the chapter that follows now.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Connor shut the door to his apartment heavily, quite upset with his twin at that moment, having just returned from an afternoon of solo surveillance. He was happy Murphy'd found himself a girl and all, but ,boy, was she ever getting in the way of things. This was not the first time Murphy'd missed something important for that girl let alone been late, but it was the first time he'd be flayed alive for it. He'd had his chance at warnings; now it was time to pay. "Murphy!" Connor called, hearing his brother's voice in the kitchen. Then he heard another voice, a woman's voice. By God, if his brother'd brought that girl home with him hoping he wouldn't be reprimanded in front of him… Well, he'd have thought wrong, that's what. "Murphy, who's here?"

Murphy emerged from around the corner of the half wall that formed the kitchen. "Connor! Yer home early."

"Well, there wasn't much work ta be fuckin' done, it bein' just me an' all," he chided. "Christ, Murphy, if yeh spent all fuckin' day with that girl and now brought 'er here, I'll have yer fuckin' arse! D'yeh hear me?" He stepped forward intimidating. "Yeh've been missin' way too fuckin' much because of that girl, and it stops here and now. Understand?! We've got work ta do! We've got fuckin' work, Murph! Don't tell me yer givin' up on the work?!"

"No, Con. I--"

"Don't fuckin' try it. I don' wanta hear it. Now get her the fuck out o' here," he commanded.

"Christ, Connor--"

"Get her out!" And with that he marched past Murphy into the kitchen and-- froze.

A space that seemed like hours passed in the next few heartbeats. Then, finally, with a wrath only barely contained and without even looking his way, Connor demanded of his brother, "What is _she_ doin' here?"

"Connor, we ran int' each other at the store. We went ta lunch; that's why I didn't come taday. I invited 'er back 'ere because I thought yeh'd like ta see her…"

"Why in Christ's fuckin' name would I wan' ta see her?!" Connor screamed.

"Fuck, Connor! She's… she's Trista!"

"Didn't we go over this -- oh, what? -- fuckin' half a year ago when I threw 'er out?!"

"I thought maybe--"

"She's a goddamned freak! A psycho!"

"--yeh'd come to yer fuckin' senses by now!"

"She's fuckin' crazy, Murph. Crazy!"

"She's a journalist."

"Yeah! Yer right. She is. She's a fuckin' journalist. And she's crazy!"

"Connor! Fuck, man! Listen ta yerself!"

"Listen ta myself?! Listen ta my fuckin' self?! I am listening ta myself! You listen ta yerself! Yer defendin' someone who put th' entire fuckin' neighborhood's pictures up on 'er wall, who had everaone's most fuckin' personal infermation tacked up along with those pictures, who fuckin' used us all ta get that information, and who betrayed fuckin' all of us with that infermation!" Connor threw his hands up in the air in desperation. "Have I misjudged here, Murph? Are _you_ the one who's fuckin' crazy?!"

"Connor, she can explain fuckin' all o' that!"

"Explain? Explain?!" Connor was nigh on hysterical now. "What is there ta fuckin' explain?! She lied t' us, Murphy! She fuckin' lied to us all! An' she used us! An' betrayed us!"

"She did not fucking betray us!"

"Oh, fer Christ's sake, how d'yeh know that?! An' if she didn't, she fuckin' would have!"

"Yeh don' know that! It's Trista, Connor, she--"

"Go-- Go-- Get out!" Connor screamed to Murphy. "Get the fuck out!"

"I'm not fuckin' goin' ta leave yeh here alone with--"

"Oh, yes, yeh fuckin' are!" And with that Connor catapulted himself onto Murphy and began the fight. A few minutes later, Murphy was in the hallway, pounding on the door, demanding to be let back in.

And all this time Trista merely sat demurely in the corner, wincing at Connor's every statement, and more at Murphy's defense of her, knowing that the former was almost completely right.

A few minutes later, when the pounding on the door had abated, Connor deserted it and wandered back into the kitchen once again. He stopped in the door way and looked down at Trista where she sat. "What did yeh think yeh were doin', comin' 'ere?" he asked in an utterly cold tone of voice.

Trista took a breath and prepared to respond, then thought for a moment, finding the precise words to use. "I ran into Murphy at the drugstore and I--"

"Don' fuckin' tell me that! Murphy's said all that! I mean just what the fuck did yeh think yeh were doin' comin' back _here_? An' why did yeh even fuckin' talk ta Murphy in the first place?! For Christ's sake, Trista, yeh know better! Yeh fuckin' well know better than that! Yeh know what 'appens when yeh get yerself int' a mess in a fuckin' Irish neighborhood! Yeh know--!"

"Shut up for just one fucking minute and let me explain!" And with her sudden outburst, Trista shut him up. "I ran into Murphy at the drugstore," Trist said slowly, testing the waters. "He came up to me, not the other way around. He invited _me_ to lunch. And _he_ invited _me_ back here. Connor, seeing Murphy was the last thing I expected to happen this morning. And spending the day with him was even farther from my mind. Murphy's reaction was entirely the opposite of what I expected it to be, but I was glad of the second chance he gave me, the chance to explain… a chance you never even thought about giving me. After I explained it all to Murphy, after lunch was over, he asked me back here. I never would've come if I thought you'd react so badly. But I thought since Murphy had given me a second chance, maybe you'd had a change of heart as well." Trista took a deep breath and finished. "Obviously, I was wrong."

Connor was silent for a long while, considering… or at least that's what Trista supposed he was doing. Really all she could tell was that he was watching her, staring at her more like, with an insane amount of intensity. Then finally he broke the tense silence between them. "Yer right," he told her. "I never gave yeh a chance." Trista nodded her appreciation of his admission. "If yeh still care t' explain, I'm prepared ta give yeh that chance now."

Now it was Trista who considered. A part of her wanted very much to be the type of girl who could just rise solemnly and walk away from such an opportunity, but another part of her, perhaps a stronger part of her, made her stay. She owed him this, even more than he owed it to her. "I was put on assignment undercover to get the scoop on the Saints," she stated bluntly. At this, Connor twitched slightly. Though he'd known she was a journalist, though he'd known of the threat she posed to him and his twin, he'd never thought that the threat actually came that close to the reality. "I was supposed to get an in into the Irish circles. You were it. I pressed you for information; I turned it around on all of my friends; I used my very best acting skills… I did horrible things. But, Connor, I found friends here, and I found a life I'd never imagined. And most, I found that I didn't want to g on believing what other people told me anymore. I found out plenty of stuff here about the Saints, but none of it anything they'd want to print in a newspaper, not mine at least. I found out that the Saints are loved. And I found out that the people here feel protected. And, most of all, I found out that I feel protected. In all of my life I've never once walked home alone in the dark, but I did it almost every night here. And the most ironic thing in the world is that this is exactly the type of neighborhood I was taught never to get caught in, especially alone, and especially after dark. But, Connor, this is the safest place in the world, as far as I'm concerned, because I know that any door I knock on will open to aide me and if I call out for help in the night, someone will hear. The Irish take care of their own.

"Now I've done some horrid things to you all," she admitted once again. "But at least give me one credit. I came to love all of you like a family, and I came to be one of you. I pretended I was really part of that family, though it was deceit. And I came to love the Saints as family, too. Because they are a part of this neighborhood, at it's very heart and soul, whether no one or everyone knows their identities. The Irish take care of their own." Trista paused, looking deep into Connor's blue eyes, blue enough to match her own. "I quit the assignment, Connor. In fact, I quit my job. Because I knew deep down inside of me, that even if I ever found out who the Saints were, I could never really do it. I could never turn them in. The Irish protect their own."

There was yet another long silence ten as Connor digested her words. Trista watched him, knowing he was deciding whether to risk believing them or not. She had lied to him for two months and kept him clueless to the last. She had to admit, her acting skills were impressive. But could someone act a speech like that? Whether or not it was possible, she didn't know, but she did know that no matter how many classes she took or how much practice she had or how many lies she told, she never could.

Finally, Connor raised his eyes once again to hers, preparing to respond. Another minute ticked by before he spoke, but when he did, it was softly, painfully, captivatingly. "That was a pretty speech," he told her. "Now get out."

And Trista left that place thinking never to see it again, yet happy all the same at what she'd done with the one break she _had_ gotten.


	19. Bar Fight, Shmar Fight

A/N: Just so everyone knows, there was no talk of Trista's pregnancy in the past two chapters on purpose. I did not forget it. Let us see who can tell me what will happen with that, eh? And now, the chapter.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Trista made her steps small and slow, deliberately. She was in no hurry to get where she was going. It was dark, though that didn't narrow down the time much. It was winter now and more than half the day was dark. There were only a very few stars in the sky, but that was mainly because of the city lights, a fact Trista regretted, else wise she might've stopped on her course and spent her night stargazing instead. But, because of this great lack of stars, Trista had nowhere to go but forward.

An hour ago she'd left her apartment, bored out of her mind and sick of Vito's constant mewing for attention. Her friends were having a dinner party that night at Kelly's place. Trista had been invited, but had declined. It was a couples' dinner party, and she was no longer a couple. To add to that fact, Henry would be there with a new half to his couple, and she had no intension of showing up to meet him alone. Now Trista's circle of friends was both a large one and a close one, and it was a wonderful circle. But Trista had no one without it. Thus, Trista had ended up alone in her apartment with her mewing cat and leftovers for dinner on a Saturday night.

After Trista had taken a few bites of her cold mushroom pasta alfredo, she'd had enough of being left out of the circle during couples night. But, having decided that, she had no idea what to do about it. She was not very well going to go out and find someone to be her couple just to get back in. No, she'd had enough of that with Henry; that's why she'd gotten out, that and… other reasons. So what _could_ she do? The solution was simple: get single friends. But Trista had been gallivanting around with the same group of friends for so long she'd forgotten where to get new ones… and as she remembered, it wasn't as though there was a store.

This whole time the answer was staring Trista in the face, but she refused to look back at it. She searched her mind for something, anything, to do to occupy her time rather than look at that which sat right in front of her. But eventually, she caved. So now she was walking down the street very slowly, very uncertainly from where she'd had the cab drop her off… to McGinty's.

Now that she'd had it out with Connor, though she didn't figure him for buddying up with her again any time soon, she didn't think he'd run her out of the bar either. The patrons had always been good to her. They would still be good to her… As long as Connor had run in there in his fit of rage and told them all her secret identity, that is. But Trista would find that out soon enough, because though her deliberately snail-like pace had put off her arrival, she now stood at the bar's door.

It was a large door, and heavy, one of the ones made in the good ol' days when they made things as they were supposed to be made. It was of a dark wood, walnut maybe, but Trista was no expert in woods. It was molded and carved on every possible surface, it seemed, and the glass it contained was frosted delicately. Trista traced the pattern on the glass with the little finger of her right hand, a Celtic knot pattern. This was an Irish bar, had always been and Irish bar, would always be and Irish bar. And then Trista remarked to herself on her own dispensability, her own inconsistency, her own lack of… Irishness. Oh, she was Irish enough in looks and in heritage, and, when she wanted, in speech. But she would never, ever, be truly Irish, never have that one quality the rest of them had, whatever it was, that made them… them. And all Trista could think to call it was: Irishness.

Then Trista turned away with the beginnings of tears forming behind her eyes, and began to walk away. What was the point if she would never be one of them anyways? But then a drunken man came out the door and called to her. "Trista? Is that really you?" He'd apparently seen her through the glass, and had come out to fetch her inside. This he soon did and Trista entered the pub to the merry shouts and welcomes of the company.

Trista thought for a moment or two of how trite they sounded in the face of what she had just discovered of herself, but only for a moment or two and then it was gone. The voices of the company were anything but trite, and neither were they harsh, cynical, or judgmental. Trista found her accent slipping back into her voice from habit, found their names all rolling off her tongue as if she'd been gone only a day, and, best and worst of all, found herself explaining that she'd been back to Ireland these past months, for her grandmother had been ill. She'd been very close to her grandmother, of course.

………………………………...

Closing time, fourth night down the line, she was in the pub again. She'd beer in there every night since her return. Did it matter that she had work in the morning? Not one bit. She never felt tired when she left this place, only exhilarated and refreshed. She went to work in the morning, got off at 5:30 and straight here. Most nights she left around midnight, but tonight was an exception. Tonight she was particularly in need of that warm, fuzzy feeling, and the warm, fuzzy feeling here was particularly good -- and that wasn't just because of the beer.

The bar was rather empty, save a few of the more loyal patrons. It was a weeknight, after all, and even the Irish had to work. Trista sat at the bar, as she did most nights. By now, her usual stool always sat open and waiting for her when she came in. By now, Patrick always new just when to cook her meal so it would be ready when she sat down. Patrick didn't cook a lot; it wasn't an eating establishment. The Irish had potatoes at home. But she was Trista, and being Trista came with very special perks, not least of all, a falsified dose of Irishness.

Trista took a sip of her Guinness and glanced towards the door. The moment her gaze returned to the bar, the great, heavy door burst open, and shouts spread like wildfire about the pub, first from those entering, then from those few still drinking the night away. Trista spun on her stool and remained speechless. But she didn't not stay so for long, on the stool or without speech. She catapulted herself forward at the sight before her, running in, pushing through the small crowd to take Connor's feet from Murphy, while the other still held his head. "Let them through! Let them through!" she could hear Patrick yelling above the noise, and they did. Soon Trista and Murphy were laying Connor across the bar, pushing glasses, bottles, and peanuts all out of the way as they did so. Patrick, ever the quick thinker, was ready with a towel doused with vodka… that would be the unused bottle on the top with the yellow label. Whenever there was a hubbub like this, someone was hurt, and whenever someone was hurt, Patrick got to get rid of a little of his vodka.

The vodka-soaked rag went to Connor's side, the source of most of the blood, but it seemed one rag would not be enough this time. So Patrick ran for more towels, while Murphy mounted the bar and pressed the cloth deep into Connor's wound. Connor writhed about at the pain, and, were not some of the other men holding him down, would've rolled himself off the bar to dash himself to death on the ground. As it was he remained conscious only for a few more moments before the pain, coupled with a lovely blow he'd received to the head, dragged him under. Patrick wrapped his patron's head in gauze, which he happened to keep on hand for times like thee -- which were apparently not so uncommon among the Irish -- and then began to tend to his side. It was a gunshot wound, and Patrick was apparently multitalented.

Trista stood back and looked on with the other patrons as Patrick did his best to clean and bind the wound. Then, when all of the dirty work was done, and all that remained to be done was the cleaning up, she moved forward at last and questioned Murphy. "What happened?"

"Bar fight," he said distractedly.

"There was a gun?"

Murphy did not respond.

"Wait. Bar fight? What bar?"

Murphy did a double take at Trista. Not only had he not expected to see her here in the first place, he had not expected her to challenge him in his explanation. He'd never received a challenge yet. "Well, not a bar fight, per say," he told her. "You know what I mean. Come on. Do we really have to do this now? Is it the time?" And with that he both gave himself an out and Trista an answer. It was more than a bar fight. But it would only ever be a bar fight to her.

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A/N: Well, what d'yeh think o' that? Now Trista suspects that there was something more in the "bar fight" than met the eye… er… that's an awkward way to put it but you catch my meaning. So. Will she begin to suspect them, do you think? Will she put Andrew's warnings together with this incident? Will she remember Ivana Grigorovich's descriptions? Or will she still be blinded by love?


	20. The Babysitter's Club

A/N: Well, hello, all. I shouldn't be taking the time to post this. But I am. I'm swamped with reading and notes and all sorts of other stuff. But you may consider this a present. Three interesting occasions have occurred recently. The eighth was the one month benchmark of this story. Yay! Also, somewhere around chapter 17 or 18 (I'm not exactly sure as my outline keeps shifting slightly.) we reached the halfway point of our tale. Yay! And lastly, today you all earned your keep. This last chapter brought How it Falls up to 56 reviews, which is more than my other major story, The Untold Story of Lily Boffin, a Lord of the Rings fic, even though that story has been up for… oh…. 9 months and has 41 chapters. That is slightly depressing in terms of Lily, but very uplifting in the fact that now I have wonderful fanpeople to read my story like all of you! So here is your reward, a chapter when I should be studying. Oh well. Who needs sleep anyways?

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There was a great black cloud in front of his eyes, and Connor wondered intermittently how that had gotten there, how a cloud had managed to follow him inside. He knew he was inside, for he could feel the desolately hard mattress under his back and the sheets bunched up around his feet. How he had gotten back to his apartment, let alone how the cloud had managed to follow him, was a mystery beyond his present comprehension. But the cloud was cruel and unforgiving and moved in front of his eyes an way he turned. He swatted at it in a pitiful attempt to make it retreat, but the cloud only sat there, mocking his helplessness. There was the sound of water dripping and Connor was momentarily afraid the cloud was going to rain on him in spite. And then, for a moment, it seemed it did rain, but Connor regained his sensibility and quickly realized that it was nothing but a damp washcloth someone was pressing to his forehead. Could they see the cloud? Why weren't they getting rid of it? But just as he thought that, the cloud began to dissipate. Connor could see his room now through a fuzzy gray glow, and he heard someone speaking to him, a woman, an Irishwoman. She must be the one with the washcloth. He was thinking more clearly now, but not clearly enough. He still could not make out what she was saying. It didn't matter much, however; the lilting tone of her voice was soothing enough. It reminded him of his mother. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this woman was not his mother, was nothing like his mother, but for the moment he ignored that and pretended to be a very small boy of five again with a fever and a cough.

"There now. Feelin' better, are we?"

He made the words out that time, and knew that he recognized the voice, but he couldn't quite place it, or, rather, didn't want to place it. The cloth moved away from his head now and he almost whimpered at the loss of it. I was his only tie to unconsciousness. He had closed his eyes once again as the cloud dissipated more, not wanting to see the strange woman's face, not wanting to be brought back to reality. He waited, thinking the cloth would return to his brow and he could go on living in his dream-like state. But the cloth did not return, and he was forced to come to terms with his present reality.

He opened his eyes very slowly, very cautiously, knowing what he would see but not wanting to see it, not at all. There was only a slight, pale fogginess now, and Connor looked around the room curiously. The woman was nowhere to be found. For a moment, Connor thought she'd been an apparition, but then he decided that the feel of the washcloth on his forehead had been an all too real sensation and that the woman must simply have left the room while he was bemoaning the loss of the washcloth. Maybe she wouldn't return. He hoped she wouldn't return. Maybe he could just write her off as an apparition and move on. He certainly didn't want to deal with what he knew the truth must be.

But then his hopes were dashed as he heard a movement just outside the door. He shut his eyes once more, still not wanting to submit to the confines of reality, and waited. Moments later, he felt someone sit next to him on the bed -- the woman -- and press the cool washcloth against his forehead once more. He sighed and tried to shift away from her hand, but she kept the cloth tight against his brow as she had been doing the whole morning through. Finally, he gave in. Without opening his eyes he asked her, agitatedly, "What are yeh doin' 'ere?"

Trista hesitated a moment before answering, weighing his grip on reality, wondering if he was speaking to her, or merely talking in his delusion. But then she decided he was, on some level, at least, aware of her presence. "I was dere last night when yeh came inta da bar. Don' chyeh remember?"

"Vaguely," was all he cared to say.

"Murphy had ta go out. He said… work… I'm not sure. But I was here already. I helped 'im bring yeh back after yeh blacked out. He asked me ta stay wif yeh, long story short." Trista adjusted the cloth on Connor's head and he swatted her hand away, an action which obviously pained him.

The fuzzy cloud was back -- Connor could tell even though he had not opened his eyes -- and his right side burned with pain. That had been a stupid move. "I don' need a babysitter," he retorted coldly to Trista when the cloud had dissipated again. He opened his eyes at that statement and bored them deep into hers. "Yeh can go."

"Actually…" Trista said hesitatingly. "You do an' I can't." She shifted her position uncomfortably. "Yeh were shot. Dat's no small ting of itself. But yeh also 'ad a fever last night. It seems ta have gone down now, but dat's why Murphy asked me ta stay, ta make sure it didn' get too bad, ta be here ta get yeh ta da hospital if it did."

Connor squirmed under the statement. She was right, he knew. He had been unconscious, and if the fevered progressed… "Fine," he told her. "But drop the accent. Th' Irish don' appreciate bein' mocked."

Trista flushed at that. She hadn't even realized she'd been using the accent. It had just slipped in last night and hadn't slipped back out. It was part of her assumed persona, and it felt strange to be here, back in her life of pretense, without it. But Connor was right, and she dropped it immediately. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was-- I meant no harm."

Connor only sighed and closed his eyes again. He knew what she meant, but was not willing to admit it, or to accept the apology. The Irish are a proud bunch.

But Trista was only half Irish, pretend more as she might, and she was not above groveling… not for those who were important to her. "Look, Connor… I never meant to hurt you. I mean--" Trista opened and closed her mouth, trying to find something, anything, to say to make him understand. "I wasn't in it for-- I mean…" she trailed off again, sighing, unable to communicate her intent, her feelings, her… anything. "I'm out now. I have nothing more to do with it. I swear. I don't even communicate with the people working on it. I don't work anywhere near them anymore. I-- I have no contact with any of it whatsoever," she insisted, her eyes pleading with him to understand.

Connor considered this for a while. She was so adamant, so passionate about it. He'd never seen her this way before. He knew she was telling the truth. But could he admit it…? "Swear on yer mother's life?"

Trista was struck by a lightning bolt. But only momentarily. Then she tried to recover, but floundered, finding no words. What does one say to that… when one's mother is dead?

"What?" Connor asked, perturbed at her silence and at her awkward look his way. "Aw, fuck, yer mother's dead, ain't she?" Trista's silence was meant as assent. "Fuck!" Connor was beating himself up a little too much. "Shit, Trista, I'm sorry."

Trista only sat silently for a moment, unsure of what to say. Then she decided on an explanation. "She was killed in a demonstration in County Donegal ten years ago."

"Fuck," he said again. "Fightin' the good fight." Trista lowered her eyes. They were silent then for a long time, neither sure what to say, neither sure what not to say. Finally, Connor broke the silence with his remark. "So yeh really are Irish then, eh?" Trista smiled. "Murphy told me those were Irish eyes." And she laughed. But then it was over and there was another long silence. This time is was interrupted by something a little more serious.

"I missed you while I was away," Trista admitted softly.

Connor looked at her for a very long moment, deciding just how fast he should fall back into this. Then he threw his contemplations out the proverbial window and responded. "I've missed you, too."

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A/N: Yes. You all love me again now, right? But are still puzzled, right? Of course right. Sorry. From time to time I shift into Yentle mode. I love Fiddler… Anyhow. Hope you liked it!


	21. You're not Here to Make Friends

A/N: So here I am again posting another chapter. I thought I had expressed this earlier, but I'm going to say it again anyways. I am not forgetting Trista's pregnancy. Also, everything – and I mean everything – will be explained very soon, this week, I hope. I did not expect the reaction I have received, but it is a fun one. Here's a tip: broaden your minds.

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McGinty's was packed by the time the trio entered. It had been a week since Connor's incident, and the three had been back to their old selves, gallivanting around together all over the neighborhood for the past four days. Now the three musketeers made their way to their customary stools at the bar. Three Guinnesses slid across the bar to them from the other side where Patrick was deep in conversation with a rather done-up girl. "How long d'yeh tink before we have ta get our own drinks?" Trista joked.

"Half an hour," was Murphy's bet.

"Twenty minutes," put in Joseph Delaney, the man sitting to Murphy's left.

"He's not gettin' wif her!" called someone from behind them. "No way!"

Trista turned to see who it was: Thomas. She waved him over, and he accepted the invitation gladly, grabbing a stool next to Joe as it's occupant stood for the washroom. "Why d'yeh say dat?" she asked him.

"She may look cheap, but she's too good for him."

"He's right," this from Terry O'Donough, coming up behind them and slapping a hand on Connor's shoulder. "She's been out for this one here for ages."

"Oh aye?" Trista asked, thinking this far too good an opportunity to pass up. "Yeh got yerself an admirer dere, Connor! What d'yeh tink o' dat?!"

Murphy cackled with laughter. Trista was catching onto this bantering thing all too quickly and all too well. "Aye, Connor! D'yeh hear that?!"

"Aye, I 'eard it. I fuckin' 'eard it," he said, smiling and shaking his head. He took a swig of his beer.

"So how long before she's got Connor inta bed?!" Thomas called out now. Trista turned back toward the bar and her beer, sobered a little by that last comment. Joe and Terry were arguing over their bets. Murphy had quieted and was watching her. She gave him a look, an honest look, a hurt look. Then she looked away, and would say no more. She'd never admit it verbally, but Murphy knew what he'd seen and he knew what she'd meant.

Trista stared into her glass. It was empty, and Patrick was too busy with that girl to bother filling it. Suddenly, she rose from her stool and leaned over the bar, groping under the counter for a bottle. She found one, grasped the neck, and pulled it up over the bar. "Twenty minutes!" she declared. There was a roar from the group around her before the went back to their conversations. A moment later there came a tapping on her shoulder. "Not interested," Trista told the man, without even turning about. She received taps on her shoulder all the time, thought nothing of it. Another tap came quickly after, which she ignored. Apparently this was not what the tapper had envisioned when he'd approached, because now a hand gripped the back of her stool and spun her roughly around to face him.

"Hey!" came the shout from Connor and Murphy in unison, and they both spun around seconds after Trista. "Back off!" Murphy barked at him, Connor standing close behind him in silent agreement. But the man did not budge, and then Murphy hurled himself off of his stool and tackled the man to the ground; two beers, a shot, and a quick temper produced such effects now and again. Connor might've had the same response -- one beer and a highly protective nature produced similar effects -- but, luckily, he recognized the man. He stood from his stool and moved quickly to pull his tin off of Andrew. "What the fuck are yeh--"

"He's not ta be touched, Murphy," Connor insisted flatly. At Connor's tone, Murphy backed off.

Andrew straightened out his coat -- an obvious sign that he didn't belong if not attacking Murphy back right then and there wasn't enough -- and turned to Trista. "We need ta talk," he told her decisively.

Trista looked around at the faces of her friends and nodded, touching Andrew's arm as she moved through the crowd toward the back door in an invitation for him to follow her. Moments later, when they were safely outside and out of hearing range, Trista said, "What?"

"I thought you were off this story," he stated coldly.

"I am."

"Then what are you doing here?" and with that he crossed his arms and cocked his head satirically.

"Andrew, I lived this life for three months. Do you really expect me not to have made any friends?!"

"I didn't."

"You didn't get an in, either."

"I didn't because I'm not here to make friends. I'm here on a job."

"Right."

"You weren't here to make friends either."

"Well, I made them. I didn't come in thinking to make them, but you have to get close to people in order to learn anything. And in getting to know the people around here, I found friends, and better friends than ever I've had."

"You shouldn't have."

"No one can live without friends, Andrew. Contrary to what Art and Paul claimed, they were not rocks and they were not islands. Neither am I. Neither are you."

"I could live without those two." Trist knew he meant the MacManus twins.

"Murphy thought you were harassing me. He didn't mean it."

"That's beside the point, and not what I was referencing."

"What exactly were you referencing, then?"

"Trista, I've been working on the web. I may not have an in, but I have eye and I've been using them." Andrew shifted and took a breath. "Those two are dangerous. You should stay away from them."

"All Irishmen are dangerous," Trista retorted, "but they'd never do anything to hurt me."

"How sure are you of that?"

"Positive."

"Positive enough to bet your life?" Andrew challenged, knowing he could do no more than challenge.

Trista pursed her lips, shifted on her feet, and bore her eyes into Andrew. He was stepping on dangerous turf now, and it wasn't the twins he should be worried about. Trista shook her head at him, gathering her revulsion into one phrase: "You betchyer arse!" And then she was gone.

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A/N: Yay, Trista! I know you were all looking forward to Andrew being told off. I was too. Yay! Review please!


	22. Tired of Familiar Fists

A/N: So hey there all. Sorry it's been a while. I was incognito this weekend… er… having a few mental health days… er… out of town. So, yeah. I'm back now, though, and so is Trista. And you're going to like what happens next.

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Connor sat on the brothers' ratty old couch in his jeans and sneakers, lighter in one hand, phone in the other. He flicker the lighter open and shut, open and shut, as he listened to the story being told to him. Then the story was finished and Connor dropped the lighter in his attempt to laugh convincingly. It was a funny story, one he would've laughed hardily at at any other time. But it was a stressful moment for the man, and he'd had a hard time concentrating on the story, or anything else for that matter. He stared down at the lighter where it sat on the floor, thought of bending down to pick it up, but then decided that would be too much effort. Beside, that story was over, his preoccupation with the lighter no longer an excuse. It was time. "So the reason I called…"

"Yeah?" Trista answered casually from the other end of the line. She was pacing back and forth in her apartment, pacing as she always did when she was on the phone. Vito was munching on his dry food in the kitchen, making loud purring sounds, and littering the floor with the pellets in his haste to get to the bottom of the bowl. It was a sound so familiar to Trista, she ignored it. Besides, at least he wasn't running in circles about her legs.

Connor cleared his throat, deciding how to word it. He'd been deciding how to word it for three days and still had not come up with anything suitable. So he went with something simple. "Come out with me tonight."

Trista hesitated a moment, confused by the invitation. "Where?" Perhaps… it was a party of some sort… or a… Trista couldn't think of a single reason he'd have to ask her to go somewhere. They were always at the bar. And where else did he go?!

"To a bar." It was rather cryptic, Connor knew, but it was the best answer he had. Where else would he be taking her?!

"Connor, we go to McGinty's every night. I hardly think you have to ask if I'll come." The frantic sounds of Vito's eating had ceased in the kitchen and Trista fear that now she'd be tripping over him for the rest of the conversation.

"I said _a_ bar, not _the_ bar." And, of course, that was more cryptic than ever.

"Oh…" Trista was thoroughly confused now. In all the time she'd known the boys, she'd never known hem to go to another bar if they had the choice… except, that is, after the res string debacle. Was something wrong? Was anything-- was Andrew--?! "You guys feel the need to mix it up a little? Getting bored with familiar fists?"

Connor sighed. This was not going well. "Not us guys," he told her bluntly. "Murphy's seein' Anna tonight, so it's just you and me. I thought it would be nice ta get away from… everaone."

Trista stopped her pacing. Trista froze. Trista could not breathe. Then Vito was purring his way around her legs in every contracting circles, and Trista lurched back into the reality of her phone conversation. "Are you…" But she couldn't quite bring herself to say it. "Nevermind."

"What?" Connor had to know. He had to hear her say it. "Are you crazy?" she would say, or, "Are you feeling alright?" And that would do it. That would put an end to the conversation, not just for the night, but forever. But if an end was to come, Connor desperately hoped it would come soon. He didn't think he could take very much more of this uncertainty.

Trista hesitated, wondering if she should substitute another question for the real one, then decided against it. Honesty is the best policy. She'd lied enough. Besides, she wanted to know; she had to. "Are you asking me on a date?"

Connor was struck by the question, his breath gone. Neither the words, nor her tone gave him any indication as to what she wanted the answer to be. How was he supposed to give her an answer if he didn't know what she wanted to hear?! "Maybe…" he said noncommittally, but he knew that really meant yes to anyone with an ounce of a brain, so he decided to take the leap. "Yeah," he corrected uncertainly.

Trista's heart was pounding so hard she thought it would burst out of her chest. What now?! What to say?! Yes! "What time?"

On the other end of the phone line, Connor breathed a deep sigh of relief and smiled.

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The cab ride was a silent one. It had been an awkward night.

At seven Connor had knocked on her door and Trista had opened it. She hadn't invited him in; she'd made sure she was ready when he got there. Connor had never seen Trista' apartment before, and she wasn't sure she wanted him to. Why? A plethora of reasons. Mostly, she led two lives, and it was easier to keep them quite separate. But it was a date and Connor had insisted on picking her up. So she'd assented and off they'd gone in their cab.

The bar Connor had taken her two had been an Irish one, as well. They wouldn't fit in very well anywhere else. A few of the patrons had familiar faces, but mostly they were isolated. The bar was quite a ways from McGinty's, after all, and there wouldn't be much overlap. Now, the pair could have sat at the bar and been welcomed into the community with open arms, but they weren't there for that. It was a date. So Connor led Trista to a table and called to the keep for beers. Then it was conversation time. Only there was no conversation, or very little of it. Neither had any idea of what to talk about.

And so, after talking about little things here and there, things quite dull and inconsequential, the pair left the bar, called a cab and rode toward Trista's apartment. Silently. When the car finally pulled up in front of Trista's building, both riders slid out and Connor walked Trista to her door, like a true gentleman. Trista hesitated to open the door when they reached it, thinking something needed to be said. She only stood, keys in hand, staring at Connor, searching for how to express-- "Look, Trista…" Connor took the lead. "Tonight was… Well, I know tonight wasn' great… I don' know what I was thinking'. I don' know how ta do this with yeh. Trista, I like yeh, a lot. An' I thought… I don' know what I thought. I just…" he trailed off and just looked at Trista, hoping he'd communicated something of what he felt, uncertainty and a certain amount of pain in his eyes.

Trista looked back at him for a long time before deciding on a response. She knew what he meant; she'd known him long enough that substantial words were not always necessary. But what did she mean? That was the question. She meant… she meant… "Kiss me," and by that she hoped he knew what she meant.

And he did. That is, he did kiss her, and he did know what she meant. And that night Trista invited Connor into her apartment, into her day-life and, of course, into her heart. From then on Connor transcended the boundaries of each of her lives and was her constant in a world of ever-shifting variables.


	23. The Definition of a Sin

A/N: Here it is, the chapter you've all been waiting for! (I know you thought the last one was… but guess what, you were wrong.)

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"So Murphy's out with Anna again tonight, eh?" It had been a month since Connor's over-reaching transformation for "frenemy" to "boyfrenemy". Things were still tense now and again, but mostly they ignored all that which would make it so. There were no dates; there were no boundaries; there were no rules. It was what it was, and what it was was fun. Simply that: fun. It was not a relationship, at least not like any Trista had ever had, but it was not just about the benefits, either. Now they sat in the MacManus' apartment. It was where Trista preferred to be, regardless of how over-reaching Connor was as a constant. Somehow, Trista's own apartment seemed more riddles with red string and lies than any apartment here in Irishland.

Connor responded without looking at her. "Aye." They were watching what was, in Trista's opinion, a rather boring movie on television, yet Connor somehow seemed extremely intrigued by it.

"They've been spending an awful lot of time together lately. Things must be getting serious." As much as she loved Murphy, Trista honestly wasn't that interested in his love life, but it was something to talk about, and talking was something to occupy her time other than this awful movie.

"I doubt it."

It was an offhand comment, but it struck Trista. "What?"

"Murphy doesn' get serious," Connor explained casually. "They're probably just fuckin' their brains out."

"Oh…" she trailed off into a nervous silence. "Are we just fucking our brains out?" she wanted to ask, but she knew the answer to that question: no. There was a better way to phrase it. "Do you get serious?"

"Oh. Oh!" Connor exclaimed, finally removing his attention from the television. "Walked right inta that one, I did."

"No, I mean--"

"No, no, it's fine. I did walk int' it, truth be told." He looked at her and sighed. "And, yeah. I do get serious." His eyes were dark and solemn now, and there was just that touch of sorrow in them that told her he'd been hurt. "I haven't in a while… not fer a really long time, actually. But that's because o' the--" He cut himself off, but quickly recovered. "--women I've been around. None o' them er much good… not like you."

Trista smiled faintly and was silent for a time then. "So, you've been with lots of women, eh?"

"Oh, now, please, don' go down that road! Yeh knew when yeh met me I wasn't innocent," Connor reacted a little over ardently.

"No, I just mean…" Trista paused, figuring out the words. "You've both gotten around, you and Murphy. Have either one of you ever… gotten into a bind?"

"How d'yeh mean, a bind? We're in binds every day."

"I mean…" Trista's heart was pounding now and she struggled with her courage to continue the conversation. "I mean with the women. Has anything bad ever happened? Have you… had two girls fight over you? pissed off somebody's boyfriend? gotten anyone pregnant?…"

Connor smirked. "Well, firstly, I'm not sure I'm on board with yeh as far as that two girls fightin' over you thing. I mean, I was always under th' impression that that was a good thing. Could've been mistaken, but…" Connor saw that Trista wasn't taking the subject lightly, and decided to drop him façade and continue. "Well, yeh know Murph and me. We've pissed off billions o' people in our time, boyfriends, fathers, brothers, er otherwise. As fer the last, I've not got any children running around out there, if that's what yeh mean, leastwise not that I know of." And Connor smiled at that, not liking the solemnity of the conversation, not liking it at all.

"That's not what I asked." As soon as she said it, Trista regretted her tone of voice. She hadn't meant it to be so… chastising.

Luckily, Connor knew that and was patient. "What, then?"

"Have you ever gotten anyone pregnant?" she repeated.

"Well, I thought I just answered that."

"Not entirely…" Trista was losing her nerve.

"Trista, I'm lost. I don' know what yeh want here." Now Connor seemed genuinely distraught.

"Just because you don't have any children doesn't mean you've never gotten anyone pregnant. That's what I mean." Trista clasped her hand together tightly in her lap. They were shaking, and she definitely did not want him to know that.

Connor was silent for a long time, looking at the floor. He knew what she meant. And she knew he understood. But what could he say to something like that? This is not the type of conversation he'd expected to have when he'd started out the night. But then, when do you expect to have these conversations? It's not like most people say, "How about we talk about our politics and religion tonight." So he weighed his words and plunged ahead. He'd said he got serious. What was he waiting for? "Yeh mean have we ever had that… taken care of? Have I, more specifically?" He looked up at her through hooded eyes, taking in her apprehension, her curiosity, and her fear. "We're Irish, Trista," he decided on, "And not Northern fucking Irish. Real Irish. We're Catholic." He watched her intently then, hoping that was enough, waiting for her answer.

"Well…" Now it was moment of truth time, time for Trista's great test of constitution. "I figured as much. But you spend every night getting piss drunk. And if you're not in the bar proper you're in the vicinity of one, in some random sort of skirmish or another. And you said yourself you get around…"

"Oh, that's nowhere near the same thing, Trista." Connor looked at her intensely now, surprised she would even suggest it. "Drinkin' and havin' a good time is one thing. In the same right as our religion is obvious as Irishmen, so is our drinkin' an' our fuckin' proud brawlin'. That's one thing, Trista; that's one thing. But killin' babies is entirely another."

Trista didn't respond to that, and Connor took her silence for acceptance. They went back to watching the movie and neither spoke much the res of the night. Then, when the hour got late, Trista said she was tired and made her way home. She'd been planning to stay over, but then she'd been planning to watch the movie, too. She hadn't planned the course of the conversation, had had no idea where it would go when she'd begun it. But who ever plans anything, anyways? And now all she you think was, "I've got my answer, then. I've got my answer."

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A/N: So. How d'yeh like that? I won't say much. But I can't stop myself asking: Do you get it now?


	24. I am Dmitry!

A/N: Sorry it's been so long guys. Uber busy. But, of course, excuses, excuses! Okay, so here comes another one of those chapters I'm not so good at, so Suggestions and such are especially welcome.

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Over the past months, the MacManuses had been slowly but surely dismantling the Grigorovich hierarchy. After the first hit, the Grigoroviches had learned, so the pickings had been slim and the work had been slow. But now there was a tip. The Grigoroviches had been extremely careful about encoding their information, but months of surveillance in between the twins' other jobs had paid off. The head honchos had to get together to talk sometime, and tonight was the night. The boys had taken out minions during the off-season: Pavel, Yakov, Georgi, Nickolay. The Grigoroviches were sure to expect an attack. Was it dangerous? Of course. Could they pull it off? Who knows. But it may be their only shot, so they had to try.

Tonight, Rostislav Grigorovich was gathering his sons and nephews to announce the successor of his very short stint as the family's head. Tonight, the MacManuses were gathering to strike their second great blow against that family. Fyodor was the chief contender, and those who weren't convinced of Fyodor favored Fasya. It was a tradition in the family for position to pass from father to son. Fyodor and Fasya were Avgust's youngest sons, twins, and identical at that. And though Rostislav was respected, he was considered only a temporary placement until the boys came of age. They had turned eighteen the month previous. It was this, rather than some half-assed scheme of retirement, that drove Rostislav from his position. Nothing had ever been said; nothing had even ever been done. But Rostislav knew the ways of the family, and he knew that if he didn't relinquish his place with honor now, sooner or later it would be taken from him.

Fasya and Fyodor were young, surely, but they were well-trained. They'd been bred for such as this, and now was their time. Besides, the Russians would rather have a well-initiated, young man leading them than a washed-up, old might-have-been like Rostislav. So now they were gathering: Rostilav, his nephews Fyodor and Fasya, his sons Valery and Dimitry, and three witnesses, Dimochka, Levka, and Stanislav. Valery and Dmitry were being considered for the position, of course… but in hypothetical terms only, as in, "IF AND ONLY IF both of Avgust's sons die some inexplicable death…" Little did they know they would all be dying an inexplicable death that night. Well, in explicable as far as how the boys got in, at least.

Now the younger men were gathering before Rostislav to receive the news, the witnesses lounging in the back to -- well -- witness. Rostislav raised his arms, gesturing emphatically, infusing his appointment with importance. And then the appointment was made. Rostislav's hands came to rest on the head of his elder son, Dmitry, now twenty-seven. That which happened next came in quick succession, with scarcely time for thought. Dmitry closed his eyes tightly, sorrowfully, knowing his father's choice was a death sentence. Fyodor and Fasya turned to farewell at Dmitry with regretful looks. The witnesses in the back of the room rose as one and cocked their guns at the row of young men before them. Valery spun about to see them and heaved his shoulder into that of his brother as three shots came their way. Rostislav dropped himself forward and onto his sons where they lay piled on the floor. And, lastly, the Saints came out to reap.

The confusion was a lucky thing for the Saints, though most likely they would've gotten on just fine without it. At the first sign of trouble, the Saints popped out from their hiding places, though no one noticed straight away. Their first targets were quite obvious: Dimochka, Stanislav and Levka, the three with the guns. The bullets hit their targets and the three went down. Three more shots went flying their way, but the Saints moved on without paying much attention. Fyodor and Fasya were next. Still saying their silent goodbyes to their cousins, they didn't even notice the extra shots as their world came tumbling down around them. Shots hit their sides as they turned, as one, to see the Saints, and then more shots to their heads and their hearts. The MacManuses jogged forward to raise Rostislav from where he lay weeping on top of his sons. On his knees before them he uttered neither plea nor prayer as he followed his sons into death.

A muffled cry jerked the Saints from their mechanical reverie. They spun around, searching wordlessly for the source. And there it came again, from just to their left. The twins jumped towards where Valery lay on top of Dmitry and pulled him roughly off. Dmitry squirmed and fought for breath and the brothers cocked their guns. "Wait!" Dmitry cried out desperately. "Wait! It is me! It is Dmitry!" The brothers shook their heads in incomprehension and Connor looked over his shoulder to his father, who stepped forward.

"What d'yeh mean, laddy? What are yeh sayin'? Convince meh of dis right 'ere an' now. Why not at kill yeh?"

"I am Dmitry!" he pleaded, sobbing. "I told you to come!"

And the boys looked to their father and he nodded. They put their guns away and helped poor Dmitry to his feet. He was absolutely covered in the blood of his brother and tear streamed down his face, not for sorrow at the deaths, but for fear of his own. He'd given the Saints the tip, told them where to come and when and how to enter. And in exchange he'd bargained for his life. The Saints never went back on a bargain. "Clean yerself up, son," Da told him, "an' den get outta here." Dmitry did as he was told. He turned on his heal and slumped into the washroom, while the Saints began their cleaning up.

The mess was extraordinary, but the clean-up was quick. There would be no hiding from this hit. The Russians already knew it was them. What they'd think of Rostislav's betrayal, no one could know. But regardless, it was over, and there was only one person who could rise to the top: Ivana Grigorovich. So in this one act, the Saint had both destroyed their enemies and made them impermeable to destruction. Ivana would never die at their hands.

When all the bodies were placed and all the prayers were said, the three made their way to the door. Milliseconds before they were out, a shot split the air. And landed in Murphy's back.

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A/N: Oooh! Ouch! That's gotta hurt. I know I don't deserve it, but… Review, please!


	25. A Box of Stained Glass Tears

A/N: Finally, a big, fat, wonderful chapter chuck full of substance! For reference as you are reading: When Trista says "the Army," she means the PIRA. And Jerry McCabe was a Detective in the Garda Siochana, the Irish police service, who was killed on the seventh of June, in 1996, by the PIRA in an armed robbery in Adare, County Limerick. Other than that it's pretty self-explanatory. I love this chapter. Here's to hoping you do too!

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Trista fell against the kitchen wall, one hand keeping her semi-upright, the other held lightly over her stomach as she convulsed through her tears. In the other room she could hear Murphy shrieking. Her hand came up to her mouth, shaking uncontrollably. Dear God, why was this happening?!

Connor anxiously approached the half wall that led to the kitchen. He could see Trista standing there, half bent over, clutching the counter for support. Dear God what he would give that she had not been here. They'd shot Dmitry down and coined him before rushing back only to find Trista lounging on the couch. She'd wanted to surprise him apparently, and take him out somewhere or other. She'd rattled it off as he entered before she realized what exactly he was covered in. He'd rushed forward and pulled her into the kitchen as she fought against him to run to Murphy's side. But it was better if she wasn't in the room, if she didn't see as Da dragged Murphy in and tended to his wound. It wasn't as bad as it had at first seemed, but severity never matters when someone you love is injured. Connor slid across the room and folded Trista into his arms. A moment passed before Trista reacted, screeching to Connor to get away from her, not to touch her, pushing him away with what strength she could muster. In her mind it was his fault Murphy was hurt; he had brought him in like this; he had done this to him. Who else…?

"Trista," he whispered brokenly.

"No!" She shrieked to him. "No! How could you do this?! How could you do--?!" and she broke off in sobs.

This time when Connor pulled her into his arms she fused herself into them. "I didn't-- I promise I didn't think--" But there was nothing he could say, so he just held her until she relaxed against him and hear tears stopped coming so incessantly. Then he moved her over to the table and sat her down. He took a halting breath and tried to form a question. Why was she reacting this way? He was fine now; Murphy was fine now. It was over, all over. It hadn't been _that_ bad. But he didn't know how to ask. So he set a hand on her back and forced her to look him in the eyes. "He's fine."

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but changed her mind and only shook her head, her hand coming once again to her mouth as silent tears resumed their trails down her face. Connor rose from the table to make her a cup of tea and she slid her head down to lay it in her arms. She sat like that for a very long time, lapsing in and out of consciousness. Suddenly she became the wounded one, Murphy's pain forgotten. At one point when she awoke, Murphy was sitting in the chair next to her, brushing strands of her hair from where they stuck to her face in the salt tracks left by her tears. "Hey," he greeted her quietly and with a smile. "Hey, I'm alright, see?" He held his arms out to show her it was true. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and she could see the bandage wrapped around his stomach. One hand reached out to touch it. "It's nothing," he confided to her with a smile, and she hid her head in her hands again and fell back off into sleep.

Hours later she was stirred awake by what she thought was someone rubbing her shoulders, but when she opened her eyes there was no one around. She spun, hair whipping through the air, scared witless of her illusion, to search the room for the source of her awakening. Nothing. Then she heard voices coming from the living room. She wiped her face, trying to rid it of the redness and stiffness of tears and sleep, before crossing the threshold between denial and reality. The conversation came to an abrupt half as she entered. Connor sat on the couch, a strange man in the chair across the room. Murphy was nowhere to be found. Connor looked over at her. "Hi, there." He said it as though she were made of glass, but a precious glass at least, stained glass maybe.

"Hi," she returned diminutively, her eyes moving from his across the room the the stranger's.

He took the hint. "Trista, this is my father. Da, Trista, the journalist."

Somehow Trista knew that was more than just a job description, and she didn't like it. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir." The response was drilled into her, but when she heard it she almost laughed at herself, then blushed and cast her eyes to the floor.

Da chuckled and responded in kind. "Da pleasure's mine m'dear." A moment of silence as he looked between Trista and his son and then, "Perhaps I should be seein' about Murph now, eh?" He swaggered into the bedroom, leaving them alone.

Connor rose from his place on the couch. "I made yeh some tea before… but by the time it was ready yeh'd fallen asleep. I could make some now if yeh'd like it."

"I would," she responded with a congenial smile. Congenial? Since when was she just… congenial with Connor?

Connor stepped forward and caught Trista about she waist stiffly, guiding her back into the kitchen. She resumed her place at the table as Connor heated the water and brought out the tea. Ten minutes later Trista was steeping her tea and avoiding Connor's gaze. "Tris…" Connor tried. "What--?"

"You don't--" She stopped him. "--have to say it."

"Okay," he agreed. "Then what _do_ I say?"

Trista only shook her head and stared down at her tea. "I don't know, Connor." There was no response that suited either of them, so for a while they just sat, sipping their tea, in an uncomfortable silence. Finally, when her tea was gone and she had nothing more to occupy her mind, Trista broached the subject. "Connor, d you know why I went into journalism in the first place?"

"I don't, Trista," he admitted. "Yeh've never told me."

"Would you like to know now?"

"Absolutely, Tris, if yeh wan' ta tell me." He was utterly sincere.

Trista took a breath before she began, but once she did, she mesmerized. "I told you my mother was Irish. And I told you she was killed in a demonstration. But I didn't tell you very much. My father was an American. That's why I lived here in the States. That and… the demonstrations. My mother was a nationalist, and a devoted one, at that. She lived quite near the border, as her status required. I was fourteen when she was killed. That's why I only spent one summer there. My parents decided it would be best if I were at least in high school before I went over, so up until that summer I had never seen my mother face to face. Pictures, videos, all of that, yes, and we talked on the phone quite often and through letters about things I couldn't talk to my dad about, you know. But that summer was the beginning of the rest of my life.

"There was a time near the beginning of the summer in early June when I stayed with my grandparents for a while. But my mother was always there except for those few days. She put everything off for that summer to keep me safe. No one can prove anything about those three days… but you and I both know about Jerry McCabe. And by my saying that, you know exactly how involved she was. My mother -- Molly was her name -- she loved her country. She was eleven when her brother was killed. He had moved to Belfast with his wife; they had a little girl named Ginny. His was one of the houses bombed by the loyalists in '69. From then on, my mother was the Army's even if she couldn't legally--" She chuckled at the irony of that word. "--join for another seven years."

"October of '96 is when my mother was killed in County Armagh. From then on, I was the Army's. I thought I would make her proud. I thought I would make everyone proud. I thought I would fight for what she believed in, what I believed in, what was right. I declared it to my father when I was sixteen. I'd spent the intervening time doing research, learning. My father grounded me for three months and told me I would not be the Army's. He did everything in his power to convince me against it. He showed me pictures and videos and told me stories… But nothing deterred me. They were videos, just videos, and I had learned that media twists things. What I saw there only fueled my ambition. Everything against the Army, I saw… as the media's attack and the blindness of modern society. Anything for the Army… was truth.

"That year was the year I learned how to lie. I would practice in the mirror, because I knew that I would only get one chance to make my father believe my sincerity. And when I took my chance, I succeeded; he believed me. From then on everything was a secret from my father. He never really knew me again, still doesn't.

"When I was in college I spend a semester abroad. Well… I tell people I spent a semester abroad. In reality, I planned out my schedule to take extra classes in other semesters so I could take one off. I'm big on planning. Or… I was. Well, in any case, I went over to Ireland and everyone thought I was in Waterford, which I was for a while. But I moved north at my earliest convenience. I took in the accents as I passed through each area. I've always been a quick study. So by the time I got where I was going, I could be pretty much anyone they wanted me to be. They didn't ask much. I mean what are they going to do if you're a convicted felon or something? Promote you? They stationed me in County Armagh as I had asked, and I spent my remaining time there and in the immediate vicinity. It wasn't much of anything fightingwise… for me personally, I mean. There was still a ceasefire. But that doesn't always mean much… as well you know. They understood why I had to leave. I'd told them ahead of time. They just didn't understand why I had to leave early.

"During my time there… I saw things." Trista looked him in the eye and would not say more for an extremely long space of time. "I saw my friends lose family member after acquaintance after close friend. And I lost people one after another. But that wasn't bad. That wasn't bad at all. I saw a car bombed. I saw children being stoned just trying to walk home from school. I saw children being shot at. I saw things that don't normally fall under peace treaties. And then I knew that the end had not, in fact, come." She swallowed hard and cast her gaze down at her empty tea cup, slightly shaking her head. "So I left. I left the fight. I didn't know what I thought after that. I began to wonder if it had been my passion all along… or only my mother's. I know now what I feel, and I know it wasn't all for my mother's sake… But I know a lot of other things too. Originally my journalism major was a way to challenge the system from the inside. Now… now I just want to tell the truth. I don't ever talk to my father any more. And you saw firsthand what lies do to me… do to everyone. I just want to tell the truth.

"I'd managed to put it all behind me, mostly at least. But tonight, when you came in and Murph was hurt like that…" She shook her head more emphatically this time. "Something inside me just snapped and of a sudden I was back in Armagh watching children being pummeled with stones."

Connor didn't speak for a long time. When he did, it was softly, concernedly. He set his hand on hers where it rested on the table. "Stay here tonight."

"Murphy…"

"He won' mind; I promise. I'll send 'im off ta see Anna. He won' mind. Stay here tonight."

It was decided. Connor rose from his seat and pulled her up with him. He wrapped her in her arms now tighter than he ever had for her need of comfort. Now it was for him. Now it was so he knew she wasn't still in Armagh. Now it was so he knew she'd always be here.

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A/N: So do you love it too? Review, please!


	26. The Centre of the Web

A/N: Yay! New chapter! Finally! I have no new excuses, only thanks and admiration for those of you who care enough to stick around. Thanks! And review please!

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"Trista, I need to see you in my office when you get a minute," Turnbaum had called into the office Trista and Melanie shared. Trista hadn't been in at that moment, but Tunrbaum had been too busy to notice. Melanie had related the message, however, and Trista had promptly knocked on Turnbaum's office door. He'd let her in and now she was sitting with a cup of coffee waiting for him to finish the phone call that had interrupted them. When, finally, he was finished, he turned to her, apologized, and began. "Trista, I have been informed of your continued interests in the Saints story."

"By Andrew." This was going to be fun.

"Indirectly, yes." He considered her. "Trista, you quit that story."

"I know."

"You begged me for that story and then you quit it."

"I know."

"Don't think you're going to get it back now at the drop of a hat. You're not."

"I know."

"And you're not going to interfered with Andrew's work."

"I'm not trying to."

"Trista, why are you hanging around there?" He tapped his pen against the side of his desk impatiently.

"I have personal business there, sir."

"What business is that?"

Trista stared at him, groping for words. "Personal, Turnbaum."

"Fine." He was not happy about her refusal to specify, but he would not press it. "Trista, you need to stay out of there."

"What?"

"Trista, Andrew says he thinks he's getting close. But he also thinks it's dangerous turf to tread. You know how much they all love the Saints. If something should happen I wouldn't want you around. And if, God forbid, they somehow found out you were involved… that you work with Andrew… that you work here… Trista, I can't risk having you anywhere near there when this goes down. It could be sooner. It could be later. You'll know when it happens. But even after that it probably won't be safe. So I suggest you wrap up your business now and get out of there."

"Turnbaum--"

"This is what I need, Trista. I went out on a limb for you and you screwed me. I brought you back with a full promotion, complete with an office and the section of your choice. This is what I need, and I am not willing to compromise."

"I hardly think--"

"This is what I need, Trista."

"And what about what I need? I hardly think I screwed you over. And you needed me back. I just made the best of the situation for me. And I--"

"This is what I need, Trista. Do it or give your notice."

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It was quite obvious that Trista could not stop going to the land of Irishness, but it was also quite obvious that she could no longer go to McGinty's. So Trista had spent the evening at the twins'. Both had understood her predicament and accepted it with little comment. Murphy had gone down to the bar alone, which was fine by both of those left behind. Privacy gained no contest. But Trista had left early that night, saying she had to get to work early in the morning. In reality, she had only walked a few blocks down and climbed a fire escape to end up where she was now: climbing through the window of the Andrew's apartment.

She knew Andrew would be out doing research; now was the prime hunting time. She absolutely had to go back after Turnbaum's insistence. She absolutely had to see the web.

And then she did.

The wall was redder than ever with string, which now wrapped around a corner and captured the majority of the next wall. The pictures had been replace by newer, clearer ones, and the descriptions had been typed up onto little cards and laminated. Even the pushpins were new, color-coordinated to reflect usual haunts. But all of this was nothing, nothing but Andrew's compulsion, that is. The real shocker was simple, plain, and utterly despairing: the center of the web.

As Trista turned to inspect the web, she found herself instinctively staring into the very center… and into some quite familiar faces: the MacManuses.


	27. Two Umbrellas

A/N: Yes, I know. This chapter is pitifully short. But on the other hand I am updating on a Monday night. Also, my titles are a little obscure. So now I would like to note, whether you care or not, that they do come from The Dar Williams song "The Beauty of the Rain", which I mentioned in the Prologue is the inspiration for this fic. That probably didn't mean anything to you back then, and I'll warn you of spoilers if you listen to it now, but you might consider listening to it at the end of this. It will be interesting, I think. It interests me. But I'm weird, so anyhow. I'll shut up. Enjoy.

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Connor sat at the bar in McGinty's alone. It was a strange thing for him to sit there so alone, but of late he had been getting used to it. Murphy was always out with Anna -- it seems they were getting quite serious after all -- and Trista rarely came down to the bar anymore. Ah, Trista. She entered his mind for the hundredth time that night. He'd thought the talk they'd had a few nights ago had been a good one. Certainly, he'd gleaned some new insight into her. But she continued to pull away, more than ever now. He'd thought the talk might bring them closer, had desperately wanted it to, but it hadn't. Why hadn't it? She'd stayed over that night but not since then, and now she refused to come down to the bar. Connor didn't understand; he just didn't. They'd been dating for a while now. Well, it had been a while since it became romantic. They didn't physically go out alone together much, but God knows they slept together enough. There was no question as to whether it was a relationship or not. The only question was as to what kind. Was it just a physical thing? Was it just casual? Or was it something more? Connor tried to shrug the thought away from his mind and took a sip of his beer. Oh how he wanted it to be something more.

He glanced around the bar looking for something else to concentrate on. Why wouldn't she commit to it? There was a new waitress at the bar these days, fairly pretty, but not very nice. Connor thought she wouldn't last long. Congeniality and a good sense of humor were essential to work at McGinty's. That talk should have brought he and Trista closer… shouldn't it have? Why, then, had things gone from bad to worse in the past days? What was going on with the bar? Why wouldn't she come down? And why wouldn't she even come over? He told himself he had to stop thinking about her, and he told himself again.

So Murph was getting serious, eh? She had to be something special for that to happen. Connor'd met her in passing a couple times but hadn't really spoken with her very extensively at all. She was a pretty girl with brown hair and hazel eyes, but as far as Connor could see there wasn't anything that special about her. He supposed he shouldn't judge so much, having known her so little. But God, did she pale in comparison to Trista. He mentally stopped himself there, transitioning subjects quickly to keep her from his mind.

There'd been a hit last night. It had gone well. God, did he miss her. They'd gotten another tips today. Why was she pulling away? Behind him, he caught a glimpse of the journalist sitting in a booth talking to an on-again, off-again customer. That wasn't good. That wasn't good at all. But hopefully the word had spread… Connor sighed and looked down into his beer. He no longer had any taste for it, nor any desire to be in the bar. He was far too distraught for that. So he dropped some money on the bar and sulkily exited, leaving behind him a trail of wondering eyes.

Outside, the world was cold and frost-covered. Slush melted slowly and ran into the gutters. Connor stopped for a moment, stopped thinking, stopped moving, stopped breathing. He let the cold invade his body and numb his anxious heart. He would go home, and he would call her. They would work this out.


	28. Something More

A/N: Wow. Another chapter. Happy is he who is reading this story. Anyhow. Not much to say about this chapter except that it contains Illumination. I have no doubt that by the end of this you'll be dying to review, and I shall be awaiting your feedback. Thank you in advance, and enjoy the show.

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Trista sat sulking at the bar in McGinty's next to Connor. After much persuasion and pestering and a quick look around to make sure Andrew wasn't in that night, Trista had finally agreed to accompany Connor to the pub. Now she was there, but she wasn't happy about it. Everything seemed to be in a downward spiral these days for Trista, and all he wanted to do was sit at home and wallow and avoid it all. Work was beginning to lose its appeal. She was almost completely isolated from her old friends by now. Her relationship with Connor had hit a snag. Everything had just stopped and look to Trista to put it all back into motion again. But now she didn't want to. She didn't want to write another run-of-the-mill theatre review, or try to decide whether to remember or forget her old friends, or try to make some sense of Connor and figure out what to do with the whole bloody mess. She just wanted to sit and sulk and forget. She'd been wanting these things for a long while by his time, but had resisted the temptations. Now, however, after seeing the MacManus brothers' faces in the center of that web, she just wanted to crawl into herself and never come out again. She couldn't believe how blind she'd been. It had been so obvious. The so-called bar fights, Murphy's recent gunshot wound. The times they'd drop off the face of the earth. The way they never talked about their work. It was them. It was. It had to be. But how had she not seen it?

Now Connor turned to her with a question in his eyes, but he did not voice it. Instead, he just put his arm around her shoulders comfortingly. Trista winced involuntarily as he did so and shrugged it off. "What?" he asked her, a little annoyed.

She shrugged again. "I just don' want yeh ta do dat is all"

Connor turned his stool towards her and got serious. "Why?"

"I just don't."

"Trista, what is goin' on?! What's been up with yeh lately? Why can't I say a single word to yeh without yeh bein' mad? An' why don't yeh ever come around anymore? What the hell is goin' on, Tris?!" Connor pleaded. Trista just downed the rest of her beer, rose from her seat, and stormed out the bar of the bar. Connor followed. Trista stopped halfway down the alley and spun on her heel to face him. "What's goin' on?" Connor repeated, more softly this time, and slightly hurt.

"I don't know. You tell me."

"What?!"

"Tell me the truth, the real, whole truth," Trista challenged.

"What truth? Trista, please, what is this about?!" Connor was so distraught he thought he could have cried.

"I know you're a Saint."

And Connor's heart stopped beating.

"So you and Murphy. Who's the third, eh?"

Blood failed to pump through Connor's body.

"What?" Trista again challenged. "Are you afraid I'm going to publish it? I'm not."

Connor forced his lips to move, but at first nothing came out. Then he managed, "Our father."

"Oh great! It's a regular family affair! I was hoping it wasn't, but oh, no! Of course it is!"

"Trista--" But Connor couldn't get a word in edgewise.

"No!" she screamed at him, her cold, cruel façade broken. "I can't believe this! I can't believe you would-- I thought you were Catholic!"

"We only kill evil," he interjected at that. "Don't you understand?! I mean, your mother--"

"My mother?!" she shrieked. "My mother?! I can't believe you brought her into this. How dare you?!"

"Fine!" he stopped her before her rant grew. "Forget her! What about you?! You said you were a nationalist! You said you agreed! Don't you see?! Don't you understand?!--"

"What is there to understand?! You murder people, for fuck's sake!"

"No, Trista! Don't yeh fuckin' understand?! It's fer God we do it! It's not against Him, no! No! It's in _His_ fuckin' _name_!"

"Killing in God's fucking name?! You know who does that?! The fucking clinically insane, that's who!"

"We kill only evil. They deserve ta die, Trista. For fuck's sake, don't yeh see?! It is God's work! It is not a sin!"

"Not a sin?!"

"Not a sin at all!"

"Not a sin?!" Trista was hysterical now. "Not a sin at all, eh?! Yeah?! Yeah?! Well when you ran out on me that morning and deserted me for months on end -- d'you remember that?! -- I was pregnant, Connor! Fucking pregnant! And it was your fucking baby, Connor, yours! And I killed it! I killed it! How's that for not a sin?!"

Silence found the alley once again. The boots of the two figures were soaked through with melting slush, and the cold invaded their bodies. Neither noticed, however. Both were consumed with such passion of emotions that there was not thought to be spared for anything else. And then the silence broke and the cold touched them and the woman walked away, leaving the man to stand frozen and alone in the alley which still echoed her words.


	29. Loving, Destructive Warmth

A/N: So, about the last chapter, I will say this: cite Chapter 16, Positive, the first list, which is labeled "List 23" for proper foreshadowing. Besides which, as many of you _have_ been pointing out, it is quite improbable that neither Connor nor Murphy would notice Trista's pregnancy at such a late term. Also… I did mention that Trista and Connor were sleeping together…. which makes the small possibility that he had not noticed an impossibility. So this wasn't out of nowhere. Other than that… all I can say is it isn't pro or con or good or bad. It's just the way the story goes. I hope none of you take offense or feel that you must stop reading, but if you do, I respect your choice. Please respect my choice not to censor this story for fear of audience backlash. I really do hope you take it for what it is. Thank you for reading! Enjoy the next chapter!

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Connor sat deadly in the same position in which he had been sitting all night. Or, rather, since he'd finally dared to budge from his place in the alley. It was two in the morning and deathly silent in the apartment. Until Murphy entered.

"Hey," he called to Connor as he crossed directly into the kitchenette to get a fresh beer. "Where's Trista? I thought yeh'd be comin' back 'ere ta get yer gee." Connor only sat silently and stared off into space. "What's wrong?" Murphy asked at the sight of his brother's face as he reentered the room. But Connor still gave no answer. Murphy sat and stared at him for a few minute, waiting. Sometimes it took Connor a while to warm up to what he wanted to say. "Connor?" he asked after a while. But all he got in return was a shake of the head. "Yeh have ta tell me, Con. I'm yer brother."

Silence.

………………………………...

Trista lay back on her bead staring at the ceiling, her feet hanging off the bed, toes running through the carpeting. She was crying. She was always crying nowadays. She'd called in sick to work that day because she hadn't been able to stop crying. Her eyes stung and her face was stiff and crusty with salt. She shuddered, her tears flowing lighter now and her sobs subsiding slightly.

Then something incredible happened: she stopped crying.

The world halted in its orbit of the sun, stopped spinning on its axis, altered its tilt. And she stopped crying.

It was as if she had no more tear left inside her, nothing more to give. All of a sudden, it was over. In a way, she felt more empty that before… in a way. And in another way she felt alone. And in another way she felt cold. But mostly she felt tired, unutterably, inexhaustibly tired.

But then the crying came again, except inside this time. No tears to encrust her face, no sobs to wrack her body, just sorrow.

And then came another new addition: she started thinking.

………………………………...

Connor was still in his place on the couch the next day. He's slept there. He'd picked at the food Murphy's laid in front of him. He'd arisen once or twice to use the bathroom. That had been his life. Now Murphy sat in front of him again, interrogating him.

"What happened, Con?"

Minutes passed in silence.

"Yeh had a fight?"

More moments of silence.

"Did yeh break up?"

And finally he exploded.

"What the fuck is there ta break?!"

"What?!"

"What was it?! What the fuck was it?! Sex?! Goddamn sex?! What the fuck was it?!"

"Connor--"

"Well, if there ever was anythin ta break we've certainly broken it. _I've_ certainly broken it!"

"Connor, what happened?"

………………………………...

Trista finally rose from the bed, anger rising in her as well. Anger and blame. The perfect midnight tonic for a broken heart. She pulled on some jeans and strode out the door.

Twenty minutes later, a cab brought her to Andrew's building. She jogged around to the alley and pulled herself up the fire escape and in through the window. Then she was standing once again before the great web of red string and the three faces she loved so well.

………………………………...

"She knows, Murphy."

"She knows."

"Yes. She knows." Connor leaned forward toward his brother who sat in a chair across from him. "She knows."

"She… knows…"

"She knows."

"She… knows?"

"Yes, Murphy! Yes! She knows! She knows we're the Saints! She knows!"

"She-- what?! She knows we're the Saints?!" Murphy jumped out of his seat.

"Yes! She knows!"

"Connor--" But Murphy could find no words. "Connor…"

"I know."

………………………………...

Trista stared at the web for a long, long time. And then something inside her broke.

She hurled herself forward against the wall and brought away great clumps of red string with her. Then forward again she rushed and threw down the web of lies and truths. And, when the entire wall was stripped completely bare, cold and lonesome in the late moonlight, she pulled from her pocket a book of matches and lit the apartment with warmth, loving, destructive warmth.

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A/N: Oooh. Trista's going a bit crazy now, eh? Well, we'll have to see just what she does next. Lol. As a note, this chapter was originally entitled "The Tree of Knowledge and the Burning Bush," because I am satirical as hell and I thought the religious theme… ironic. But, alas, that title was too long to fit in the little box. Oh well. Anyhow. Hope you liked it! Review please!


	30. Helpless

A/N: A short chapter, but of substance. I have a ridiculous hope of finishing writing the whole story today. Yes, the end approaches. I probably won't but I shall try. And I shall have another chapter for you all ASAP. Thank you all for reading! Please review!

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Connor stood in the alley behind McGinty's as he had that night so many days earlier. It had been raining then too, or had begun to after Trista had left. He had just stood there, unmoving, letting the raindrops fall in great gobs upon his head. Now he was doing the same thing, except the gobs were not gobs anymore but little dainty drips. The rain was subsiding. Connor wasn't happy about that. He was soaked to the bone, and that didn't much matter when the rain was still falling but once it stopped he would begin to get the itch to leave, to run away. But there was no point to him being there anymore. The raindrops had provided a patterned distraction to crowd out his thoughts. But now his thoughts would haunt him there just as much as anywhere, if not more. Yet, that was what was really necessary… He couldn't escape it. But then… he wasn't running, was he?

He had had a child. That was it. He didn't now, of course, but for a space of time, no matter how brief, he had had a child. He had had a child. He had had a child by Trista. Trista. Until this idea formed itself completely in his mind, he hadn't realized just how serious he had wanted it to get between them or just how desperate he had been for it to get there. And now his heart ached to be back in that space of time, to know that child of his. If he had only been there… If he had only--

He tore his hands through his hair. He wasn't so much angry as upset. He didn't blame her really. No, not really at all. He hadn't been there. She had been alone. He had deserted her. She must have felt so lost, so trapped… If only he had listened, if only he had waited for an explanation, if only he had been there, then maybe, just maybe, he could have persuaded her. Could he blame her for being scared? Could he blame her for not wanting to do it all alone? Perhaps. Perhaps a stronger woman… perhaps a better woman… But he hadn't been there. And it was his responsibility as much as it was hers. God knows, he had been in better shape that night than she. She'd been trashed. And could he blame her for one drunken, irresponsible night when her entire world was coming down about her? He did the same thing for lesser evils. He should have thought that night. He should have been more conscientious in the first place. He should have done a lot of things. But he hadn't.

And now he regretted it.

But regret did so little, almost nothing at all. Almost. The one thing it did do was turn him against himself.

It was his fault. It was. There was no doubting it and no escaping it. "Admit it, Connor," was his thought to himself. "You killed your child. You killed your _own_ child. Just by not being there you killed her, just by not being there. You deserted her, deserted them both. You condemned them to death and torture: death for your child, torture for her mother. You did this. You."

He should have seen it. He should have known. He had avoided the bar, knowing she would be there, avoided her. There had been no way for her to get in touch with him. He had made sure of that. He had thought to be protecting himself and his brother. Instead, he had been alienating Trista, condemning his child, breaking his family apart… And then… And then she'd been trying to tell him, trying to tell him for so long. She had been so alone, so pained and alone. And as if it weren't enough that he had deserted her in the first place, he hadn't been there to listen later on. It had started with that first great talk. It was all so clear now; how could he not have seen it. It was all so clear. She'd been trying to tell him. That's why she'd asked him about the trouble. That's why… She'd been trying to tell him. She'd been trying…


	31. No Longer a Nameless Fear

A/N: Subtitle: A Window into Insanity. Well, I achieved most of my goal. I now have all but the last chapter written and I decided to condense a couple chapters and make them into just two because it seems to make more sense this way. Thus, including this one, there are three more chapters until the end. So bittersweet, eh? It will be my first completed work of posted fanfiction. Anyhow. I'll leave you to the chapter now and carry on with my nostalgia elsewhere. Enjoy.

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Trista sat alone in her office, pouring over her article. Melanie had called in sick that morning, and Trista was glad of the solitude. She read the article over again as she had so many times before. It was a good article -- no -- more than good. It was a groundbreaking article, a front-page article, an award-winning article. But it was not the one she had been asked for. She had been asked for a commentary on a much-anticipated, new book. She had written her destruction. Again she read it over. It seemed as though she was reading it for the first time. Each time she read it she was amazed a new. It was as though someone else had written it through her and she was only now seeing the truth in it. She could not believe what she had penned. She could not fathom it.

There it sat, poised and printed, ready to go: the truth about the MacManuses.

………………………………...

"Connor, I know somethin's wrong… again. Somethin's always wrong with yeh these days, seems ta me. Is it still about Trista?" Murphy inquired, thoroughly sick of the whole affair. "You really just need ta get over this, Con. So she knows. So what? It's Trista. She's not fuckin' goin' ta go tellin' anyone. She knows us. She may be upset, but she sure as hell knows wer good guys. And yeh haven't talked ta her in -- what? -- a week an' a half because o' this. What is goin' on with yeh?"

It took Connor a while to respond and by the time he did, Murphy had already given up on him and was flipping through the few channels that came in on their little old TV over and over again. "She was pregnant."

Murphy turned his head a little, fixated on his patterned clicking. "What?"

"She was pregnant. Not-- not now. But before."

Now Murphy gave him more attention. "She has a kid?"

"No. No." Connor was trying to make his brother see, trying, but he couldn't seem to get the words out. "That night at the bar. We were drunk."

"When are we not drunk, y'idiot?"

"No. No. That night. We were drunk. I went back t' her apartment. That night when I saw the wall and all o' the-- the-- the…"

"Yes….?"

"She… she…. She was…"

"She's pregnant?! Fuck! She can't be! She doesn't _look_ pregnant."

"She's not fuckin' pregnant."

"Connor--" Murphy was getting frustrated now. "What the fuck are yeh sayin'?"

"She killed it."

………………………………...

The paper sat before, her deepest fear, her most acute pain… save one.

She shoved it into the top drawer and turned to stare at the blank notebook that had been sitting underneath it. Her pen hovered above it, but she was unable to write anything. Then finally her hand was moving across the page, more swiftly and strongly than she ever could have imagined. She was once again possessed but this time by something much different. When she finally looked to see what she had written, she found, to her great surprise, that she could no more print what she saw before her than the article in the drawer.

Olivia MacManus

Jennifer MacManus

Henry MacManus

Gregory MacManus

Cara MacManus

Stephen MacManus

Molly MacManus

And there she stopped. Molly. It had been her mother's name. Slightly cliché, she knew, an Irishwoman named Molly, but at least she had not had red hair… Molly. That was right. The name of the mother she'd never known for the name of the child she'd never given a chance. That was right. That was exactly right.

And then she began to cry.

………………………………...

Murphy sat hunched over on the couch, his hands placed in front of his mouth as though he were praying. The television was off now and the room was patiently silent. "If she did what you say she did…" Murphy began. "I'm not familiar with that kinda thing, but I know of women who've… had that done… and afterwards…"

"I know," Connor preempted him, not needing to hear the rest of the statement, not wanting to.

"They were…"

"I know," he said again to stop the onslaught of truth.

Murphy took the hint the second time, saying only, "You should go to her."

"I can't," was Connor's flimsy response.

"Why the fuck not?"

"She ran out on _me_ this time. She doesn't want anythin' ta do with me."

"Is it that?" Murphy asked ponderously. "Or is it yer afraid?"

………………………………...

Trista sat, still despairing, at her desk. The paper before her ran with ink and tears. She wiped her eyes and tried to sober, but only fell back down onto the paper again. "Oh, Connor. What have I done?" she whispered to herself. "What have I done?"

Outside, she could hear a flurry of activity and a buzz of voices as had been going on for the past two weeks. Any time someone entered the office he was immediately assailed with a barrage of questions: Did you hear about the apartment? Did you hear about Andrew? Did you hear? Is there any new news? Most of the time the answers were three yeses and one no. Every now and then someone came back from a vacation or perhaps a maternity leave. And Every now and then some new piece of news floated in through the vents. But mostly the shuffle was all for nothing, nothing but the entertainment of office gossips.

A knock at her office door made her jump in surprise and hastily wipe the tears from her face and shove the notebook in the drawer with her breakthrough article. "Come in," she called quickly. And he did. She almost gasped at the face she saw before her. Far from any she had expected, it was Connor.

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A/N: Two to go. The countdown continues. I hope you liked it. Review please!


	32. The Storm from Outside the Window

"You burned down Andrew's apartment."

Trista nodded. "What are you doing here?"

Connor stepped forward, scarcely breathing. "I came… because…" He stopped and looked down at her desk. "I came because I thought yeh might want me here," he said after a time, "and because I wanted ta be here."

There was silence between them for a long time before Trista invited him, "Will you… sit down?"

Connor rolled over the chair from behind Melanie's desk and sat across from Trista. "I… have been thinkin'," he began, "about what yeh said. It's all I _can_ think about." He watched Trista for a moment, trying to gauge her reaction. "I am… so sorry. I should have been there. I should have been there fer yeh. But I wasn't." He looked around the office nervously. "I can't say," he said when his gaze returned to Trista, "it's what I would have done or what I would have wanted. But I wasn't there. An' it was yer decision. An' I wish-- I just wish I had been there. And I just hope yeh can fergive me. Trista," he was whispering now, "please. Forgive me."

Trista shook her head and her eyes filled with tears. "You did not know. There is nothing to forgive."

They did not speak for another long period of time. Neither knew what to say. Then Connor spoke once more. "I know yeh don' agree with what Murphy and I--"

"Connor!" Trista jumped from her seat. He was greatly startled by the reaction. "Not here." And then he understood.

Trista went to Turnbaum and told him an emergency had come up, and that she was taking the rest of the day off and before either of them knew what they were doing, they were striding down the streets toward McGuinty's. Along walk later, they entered the pub. But before Trista could sit down, Connor grabbed her by the arm and turned her towards him. "Not here either," he told her and lead her out behind the bar.

It was not raining now, and the talk was not as dark, but it felt the same… somehow. Connor let go of Trista's arm reluctantly and moved away. After a moment to calm his nerves, he turned back to her and proceeded. "I know… yeh don' agree with the work we do -- Murphy and me and our father -- but maybe yeh can understand…"

"There is no need to go any further," Trista stopped him before he invested himself in a persuasion. "I do understand. I felt the same need myself once, as I have told you, the same need to purge the world of evil, to bring good and truth to light." She took a breath, as though about to say something else, but she stopped there.

"There's more. Yeh-- Yeh wan' ta say somethin' else. What is it?" Connor drew it out of her like poison from a wound.

"I was just going to say…" But now Trista had lost the words and all she had was the feeling. "It never did any good… what I was doing. It never did anyone any good. Sometimes… sometimes it ended up hurting them more, and-- Well, I just… sort of found out the hard way that… I couldn't fix it. Maybe…"

"Maybe I should learn from yer mistakes," Connor finished for her. "Maybe I should learn from the deaths and the pains that have already happened because of this stupid, fuckin' job. Maybe I should get out while I still can, before somethin' worse happens that ends it _for _me."

Trista took a sharp, quick breath, and that stopped him. "Actually," she said breathlessly, and through pained memories, "I was going to say maybe you can do the good I couldn't."

Connor smiled a little then, and laughed lightly, but satirically. When his tone quieted he still retained a little of the smile, and he spoke softly, lovingly. "Trista," he said, "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too."

The words were small and few, but they were enough. Within seconds of their being said, Trista was in Connor's arms, and all past hurts were melting away in a sea of tears and embraces. And then the words came for a third time that day, "Not here." And Connor pulled Trista back through the bar and led her to his apartment and into the bedroom and onto the bed.

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A/N: Well, the countdown continues. One chapter left. What will it be I wonder? I hope you all liked this last one! Please review!


	33. How it Falls

Trista stirred noiselessly where she lay in Connor's bed. He was crowded up against her in the little twin bed, but the closeness seemed only right. There was no sign of Murphy in the room; he'd taken one look in and retired to the couch. Now Trista blinked her eyes fiercely against the blurry world, trying to bring everything back into focus. It was early, she knew -- the winter sun had not yet risen -- but she was used to getting up at such times for work. Knowing sleep would not return, she slid from the bed, donned her day-old clothes, and exited the apartment. She didn't want to wake Connor, and with Murphy in the other room there was nowhere to dawdle. So she figured she'd run home and change and then go into work a bit early to make up for the time she'd missed yesterday.

Once at home, she stripped off her clothes and jumped into the shower. It had been a nice night, a good night, a night to remember. Everything was out in the open now: her job, their job, the baby… Everything would be good now. Everything would be better. They could finally have the life she'd wanted them to have all along. They could finally be close. They could finally… be.

Pulling on a pencil skirt and blouse, she hurried out the door, not rushing for any particular reason, but just full of energy and a zest for life. The world was good again. And from now on, she promised herself, her world would always be good. No more undercover stories, no more shots in the dark for greatness. She didn't need that anymore. Greatness was within her, rather than outside of her, now. And greatness was far less than essential. No, what was essential was love. One thing else she promised herself: no more lies. For lies had gotten her mother killed, and lies would kill her too, if by more prolonged and torturous terms. Lies had nearly done so already.

She pushed open the great glass doors of her office building and jogged up the stairs, too impatient for the elevator. The minute she pushed the stairwell door open and stepped onto the floor that her sector occupied, she knew something was up. There was a buzz running from desk to desk and the air was crispy and quick. She smiled. It was the perfect day for a little excitement. She strode forward, her head held high, her steps swift and sure. "What's going on?" she asked the nearest coworker, a new intern named Lexi.

She was quick to respond, "Oh, Trista! Oh, you must be so happy! Trista's here! Hey everybody, Trista's here!" she called and immediately Trista was swarmed with well-wishing co-workers. Plenty reasons there were for her to be absolutely ecstatic about that day, but none which she thought anyone in the office would know. She was a bit confused, but too elated to realize the extent of it all. And then Turnbaum came out.

"Trista! I knew you had it in you! I always knew!"

And such emphatic support from him snapped her back into reality: something was not right.

"What is going on?!" she snapped at them, and they reeled backwards, away from the outburst.

"Trista… your article." It was Melanie. "It was…. It was amazing!"

"What article?!" Trista cried. "My book review?! You mean the one I _didn't write_?!"

"Book review?" came the murmur from the crowd.

"Trista… your big article," Melanie explained. "You left early. I came in after you left. Turnbaum asked me to get your article and send it down to layout." She shook her head. "It was in your desk. I never expected it to be the breakthrough, but, Trists, it was so… so…"

"In my desk?!" Trista's hands flung up to cover her mouth. For a moment she stood taking everything in, her eyes wide. Then she fled.

She was at the brothers' apartment faster than she'd ever gotten there before, shoving the door open, sprinting in, screaming out their names. The whole world seemed to normal, so unaffected inside that apartment. It was quiet and calm. And then she looked past the half wall into the kitchen. Two plates filled with breakfast sat still warm on the table, utensils flung on the floor, and, in a corner, the morning paper where it had slid in the scuffle. The headline jumped out at her, just as she knew it would: Saints of South Boston Revealed. Slowly, she turned about and stepped measuredly towards the bedroom. She pressed the door open just enough to see the empty drawers sticking out akimbo from the dresser.

There, before the half open door, she fell to her knees, too devastated even to cry, knowing she had lost him forever. Even if she could find them now, it would be too late. He would never love her again. How could he? She had betrayed him. It was over. This was the end. There was no more. It was done.

At least they got out in time…

………………………………...

Fifty miles and two hours later, Connor sat on a train next to his brother, staring out the window. They had phoned their father, and he would be meeting up with them in Chicago. For now, all they could do was wait while the train pulled them closer and closer to escape and farther and father from home. For Connor, there was something more than comfort that he was leaving behind, something so strong it almost compelled him to stay. Almost. But to stay was death and long jail time beforehand, and he was not ready to give in to that.

But all throughout the long train ride to Chicago as he passed in and out of consciousness, he kept asking himself one question:

"Why do I fuckin' love her?"

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A/N: Well. That's it. That's the end. I hope you liked it. The ending is ambiguous, I know. It could be the end… or it could be the beginning. I'm planning a fic with Murphy as the central character which coincides with this one and then maybe a sequel. We'll see. But in any case, thank you all for reading and I hope to see you at my stories again. As a last note, I will be changing my username to Judy Blue Eyes. Please bookmark me or look for me under that name or… something. Keep in contact! My love and thanks, Meara.


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